THE 

JRNS 


II 


i/U  $$ 


WHEN  THE  TIDE  TURNS 


WHEN    THE    TIDE 
TURNS 


BY 

FILSON  YOUNG 

Author  of  "The  Sands  of  Pleasure,"  "The  Happy  Motorist," 

"Venus  and  Cupid,  an  Impression,"  "Ireland  at  the 

Crossroads, "  "  Christopher  Columbus, "  etc. 


BOSTON 
DANA  ESTES  &  COMPANY 

LONDON 
E.  GRANT  RICHARDS 

7  Carlton  Street,  S.  W. 
1908 


Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall 

Copyrighted  November,  1908 
BY  DANA  ESTES  &  Co.    , 

All  rights  reserved 


Electrotyped  and  Printed  at 
THE    COLONIAL    PRESS: 

C.  H.Simonds  <&  Co.,  Boston,  UAA. 


TO 
MY   FRIEND 


<Ertc  IX.  3X 


2228414 


BOOK  I 


11 


WHEN  THE  TIDE  TURNS 


RTJPEKT  SAVAGE  pressed  the  tiller  against 
his  side  and  slacked  away  the  sheet  of  the  lug- 
sail,  and  the  little  boat  paid  off  before  the  wind,  the 
water  bubbling  and  talking  under  her  planks.  As 
the  white  sail  bellied  out  and  strained  against  the 
mast  he  steered  close  in  to  the  low  shores,  flying  past 
miniature  rocky  capes  and  bays  on  the  clear  green 
water.  Presently,  as  a  small  natural  harbour  opened 
out  in  the  rocks,  he  slipped  the  halliards  and  lowered 
the  sail,  swinging  the  boat  round  and  pointing  her 
up  the  narrow  passage.  The  water  lay  perfectly  still 
in  the  morning  heat ;  even  the  sea  birds  were  silent ; 
and  the  empty  shore  gave  back  no  sound  but  an  echo 
of  the  murmur  of  the  tide  where  it  slipped  through 
the  narrows.  Before  him,  at  the  head  of  the  inlet, 
appeared  a  patch  of  shingly  beach;  the  little  boat's 
way  carried  her  on  and  up  until  the  deep  silence 
was  broken  by  the  crunch  and  slow  grating  touch 
of  her  landfall,  and  by  the  little  wave  of  water  that, 
following,  broke  on  the  pebbles.  And  then  every- 
thing was  still  again. 

Rupert  sat  for  a  moment,  attentive  to  the  charmed 
silence ;  then  he  jumped  out,  taking  the  boat's  painter 

13 


14  WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS 

up  to  a  projecting  rock  and  making  it  fast,  and 
carried  his  basket  up  the  little  beach  on  to  the  slope 
of  seargrass  that  stretched  above  it.  Choosing  a  soft, 
sun-warmed  spot,  he  took  off  his  grey  flannel  coat 
and  waistcoat,  kicked  off  his  white  canvas  shoes,  un- 
fastened his  tie  and  folded  it  into  a  pocket  of  his 
coat.  Then  his  head  disappeared  behind  his  soft 
shirt,  reappeared  again  with  a  tumbled  crown  of 
ruddy  brown  hair;  his  socks  and  trousers  were 
slipped  off  and  laid  beside  the  coat,  and  he  appeared 
as  a  long,  slim,  rather  loosely  built  youth  of  about 
twenty-one,  with  merry  grey  eyes  and  a  sad  mouth, 
and  a  broad  forehead  over  which  his  tumbled  hair  fell 
rather  low.  He  stepped,  sidling  and  balancing  him- 
self over  the  stones,  to  a  steeper  edge  of  the  rock, 
and,  hesitating  a  moment,  plunged  into  the  water. 

He  swam  and  splashed  in  that  clear  element  for 
half-an-hour,  unwilling  to  leave  it  for  the  hot  earth ; 
then  he  climbed  ashore,  dried  himself  in  the  sun, 
dressed,  and  with  his  basket  in  his  hand,  went  along 
the  grass  for  a  few  hundred  yards  until  he  came  to 
a  rib  of  sandy  beach  that  divided  a  bluff  mass  of 
rock  from  the  mainland.  He  crossed  the  damp 
sandy  channel,  from  which  the  waters  had  only  just 
ebbed,  and  climbed  and  scrambled  up  the  grassy 
shoreward  side  of  the  rock. 

Gunn's  Island  stands  like  a  fortress  at  the  entrance 
to  the  lough.  Northward  it  fronts  the  narrows  with 
sheer  cliffs  as  high  as  a  cathedral,  and  eastward 
looks  out  on  the  tumbling  waste  of  the  Irish  Sea. 
It  stands  higher  than  the  mainland,  from  which  it 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  15 

is  only  separated  at  high  water  of  spring  tides,  and 
its  attraction  for  Rupert  was  that  it  afforded  the 
best  view  of  the  narrow  channel  where  the  tides 
streamed  past  the  low  green  shores  day  and  night 
with  a  noise  like  the  roar  of  a  great  city.  From  it 
also  he  could  best  observe  the  evolutions  of  a  curious 
overfall  or  eddy,  known  as  the  "  Priest's  Mother," 
that  swings  up  and  down  with  the  tides  there  off 
Gunn's  Island.  Although  the  inhabitants  of  those 
shores  believe  that  it  is  caused  by  the  restless  spirit 
of  an  old  woman,  the  mother  of  a  priest,  whose  coffin 
fell  overboard  and  sank  while,  it  was  being  taken 
from  Rathshene  to  Killeef  for  burial,  it  is  more 
probable  that  some  shelf  or  cavity  in  the  bottom  com- 
bines with  the  great  weight  and  quickness  of  the  cur- 
rent to  produce  the  overfall  —  an  eddy  harmless 
enough  at  certain  periods  and  conditions  of  the  tide, 
but  at  others  treacherous  to  boats  that  come  within 
its  influence.  From  Gunn's  Island  it  is,  at  any  rate, 
an  arresting  feature  in  the  view  of  the  narrows,  for 
on  the  calm  face  of  the  sliding  bulk  of  waters  it 
appears  as  a  mysterious  and  shifting  embellishment; 
now  spreading  itself  in  outlined  circles  as  smooth 
as  oil,  now  swinging  and  slanting  in  a  dizzy  revolv- 
ing hollow,  now  disappearing  for  a  minute  at  a  time, 
and  appearing  in  a  sullen  burst  of  foam  a  cable's 
length  away. 

In  the  slack  half-hour  at  the  bottom  of  the  ebb 
the  Priest's  Mother  sleeps  and  makes  no  sign.  Upon 
the  first  inward  draught  of  the  stream  she  awakes 
with  a  sob  that  on  a  still  day  can  be  heard  in  the 


16  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

pastures  two  miles  away.  At  half  flood,  for  some 
unknown  reason,  she  sinks  into  quietness,  and  can 
only  be  traced  by  a  network  of  fine  lines  on  the  sur- 
face; and  at  the  top  of  high  water,  when  the  tide 
seems  dead  and  the  surface  currents  at  rest,  her 
clamour  again  breaks  out  on  the  brimming  stillness, 
and  continues  until  at  low  water  the  cattle  are  trail- 
ing home  from  Gunn's  Island  to  the  mainland.  It 
was  not  wonderful  that  for  an  imaginative  shore- 
dwelling  race  this  creature  of  the  tides  should  be 
invested  with  a  personality,  or  that  their  ears  should 
discern  in  its  changeful  but  eternal  rumour  a  busy 
and  intimate  intelligence. 

Rupert  continued  to  climb  until  he  reached  the 
level  grass  of  the  summit,  which  he  crossed  to  the 
point  where  it  ends  and  the  rocky  wall  of  the  island 
begins  to  go  down  to  the  sea.  Clambering  skilfully 
over  the  edge  he  let  himself  down  from  ledge  to 
ledge  until  he  came  to  a  natural  seat  formed  by  a 
projection  of  the  rock;  and  there  he  unpacked  his 
basket  and  ate  his  lunch.  When  he  had  finished  he 
lit  a  pipe,  and  took  out  a  sketch-book  and  a  box  of 
pencils  and  pens  and  a  small  ink  bottle.  He  opened 
the  sketch-book  and  looked  closely  at  one  or  two 
pages  —  closely,  and  a  little  hopelessly ;  for  his  eyes 
constantly  travelled  from  them  to  the  water,  and 
back  again,  while  his  brows  were  knitted  in  an 
anxious  puzzled  expression.  Presently  he  laid  the 
book  aside  with  a  sigh,  and,  leaning  back,  looked  out 
over  the  water. 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  17 

His  view  was  across  the  narrows  —  the  neck  of  the 
bottle  formed  by  the  great  lough.  Before  him  lay 
the  low  shore  on  the  other  side,  running  out  into  a 
long  point  dividing  sea  from  lough,  and  on  his  left 
the  waters  broadened  away  towards  the  line  of  moun- 
tains that  are  their  inland  boundary.  A  very  peace- 
ful scene  on  this  quiet  day,  with  no  movement  but 
the  fleeting  current,  and  little  sound  but  the  continu- 
ous murmur  and  growl  of  the  tide  among  the  rocks. 

Its  soft  and  prolonged  thunder  filled  the  quiet  air. 
Green  fields  lay  beyond  the  flood,  with  their  sheep 
dreaming  in  the  sunshine;  nearer,  the  level  blue 
floor  came  sliding  and  sliding  in  from  the-  sea.  That 
was  after  Rupert  had  been  looking  at  the  fields  and 
the  sheep ;  but  when  his  eyes  had  rested  for  long  on 
the  water  and  returned  again  to  land,  it  was  the  tide 
that  seemed  fixed  and  steady,  and  the  shore  with  its 
white  cabins  that  took  up  the  movement  and,  like  a 
panorama,  streamed  seaward  towards  the  bar.  It 
was  a  day  without  wind,  but  sometimes  a  wandering 
air  would  come  down  and  sweep  across  the  calm 
water,  wrinkling  it  with  tiny  wrinkles  that  turned 
its  radiant  colour  to  a  deeper  hue.  Patches  as  of 
purple  and  peacock  thus  came  and  faded  upon  the 
broad  ultramarine',  and  kept  the  surface  colours  fad- 
ing and  changing  like  lights  in  a  lover's  eyes.  In- 
shore the  water  was  green,  or,  where  the  rocks  and 
seaweed  showed  through  the  shallows,  a  golden 
brown ;  and  wherever  in  deep  water  a  rock  or  jutting 
point  of  land  opposed  itself  to  that  swift  tide,  it  was 
girdled  with  a  ring  of  foam  and  murmuring  sound. 


18  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

On  Rupert's  left,  in  the  sweep  of  Bandarragh  Bay 
where  the  shore  curved  in  from  the  bend  formed  by 
Gunn's  Island,  the  waters  were  sown  with  a  great 
brown  tumble  of  rocks,  and  the  coast  continued  in 
capes  and  bays  and  low  promontories  and  forked  in- 
lets and  little  islands  and  sounds,  shoals  and  deeps 
and  roadsteads,  like  the  coast  line  of  a  continent  in 
miniature.     Along  this  coast  line  the  rocks  were 
clothed  with  a  soft  garment  of  brown  seaweed,  still 
wet  where  flat  expanses  had  held  the  water  from  the 
last  tide,  salt  and  rich  and  moist  and  odorous.    And 
everywhere  on  these  flat  expanses  of  rock  and  sea- 
weed gulls  and  puffins  were  perching  and  crying,  now 
dipping  into  a  pool,  now  quarrelling  and  screaming, 
now  dressing  their  faultless  plumag^   but  always 
decorating  the  water  with  the  flashing  of  their  wings 
and  their  circling  movements. 
^  And  to  all  this  coast  world  the  returning  tide  was 
like  the  return  of  life  and  breath.     Its  tremendous 
volume^  floating  in  without  wave  or  ripple,  spent  and 
spread  itself  upon  the  shores,  a  beneficent  and  life- 
giving   stream.      Boundless    and   inexhaustible   the 
source   from   which   it  came,   into  which   it   would 
obediently  return,  boundless  the  life  and  power  of 
its  superb  movement !     Like  the  blowing  of  a  great 
wind,  it  poured  in  and  in,  as  if  it  could  never  pause 
or  turn,  seeming  to  contain  in  its  steady  flood  all 
colour,  all  life,  and  all  movement.     As  yet  its  great 
daily ^task  was  but  half  accomplished ;  its  level  where 
it  brimmed  against  the  weedy  rocks  was  still  far 
below  the  brown  ring  that  marked  its  limit  of  ascen- 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  19 

sion;  but  though  so  much  was  still  to  do  its  move- 
ment was  perfectly  steady  and  sure,  as  if  all  eternity 
instead  of  only  a  few  hours  remained  for  the  task. 

In  the  smoothest  part  of  the  current,  as  though  it 
had  been  wiped  and  prepared  like  a  slate,  the  runes 
and  riddles  of  the  Meadows,  as  they  named  what 
in  calm  weather  was  little  more  than  a  mysterious 
inscription  on  the  face  of  the  tide,  were  being  traced 
by  an  invisible  finger,  and  fading  as  fast  as  they 
appeared;  and  off  the  point  of  Gunn's  Island  two 
great  circles  of  commotion  girdled  with  snow  marked 
where  the  Priest's  Mother,  like  an  alert  sentry,  kept 
watch  on  the  entrance  to  the  lough. 

It  was  these  lines  and  circles  on  the  water  that 
fascinated  Rupert  and  brought  him  to  Gunn's  Island 
so  often  in  pursuit  of  his  curious  art.  He  had 
evolved  for  himself  a  medium  of  expression,  at  which 
he  laboured  constantly,  feeling  his  way  with  little 
more  help  than  was  to  be  found  in  the  dozen  French 
illustrated  papers  and  English  art  journals  that  he 
devoured  every  week.  Colour  had  little  or  no  at- 
traction for  him;  he  saw  everything  in  outline;  he 
ignored  the  ordinary  terms  of  light  and  shade;  he 
never  distinguished  between  things  and  their  shad- 
ows, although  he  had  subtle  tricks  of  line  that  sug- 
gested the  direction  of  light.  To  sit  for  hours  looking 
at  a  landscape  rich  in  colour,  in  mass,  in  lights  and 
shadows,  and  to  bring  home  a  sheet  of  white  paper 
with  a  dozen  long  waving  lines  on  it,  and  as  many 
little  whorls  and  curves  of  dots,  seemed  to  his  aunts 
and  a  few  friends  who  ever  saw  his  work  a  lamen- 


20  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

table  misdirection  of  energy.  Moreover,  they  com- 
plained that  what  Rupert  drew  was  not  like  anything 
real,  and  of  course  they  were  right.  The  strange 
women  in  full-length  profile  that  sometimes,  ap- 
parently quite  irrelevantly,  adorned  the  left  hand 
foreground  of,  say,  a  dozen  lines  that  were  the  moun- 
tains beyond  the  lough,  bore  no  resemblance  to  the 
well-nourished  young  women  of  the  neighbourhood; 
and  it  is  at  least  doubtful  whether  Rupert  intended 
that  they  should.  His  art  was  for  him  an  escape 
from  a  reality  that,  although  it  was  far  from  repel- 
ling, did  not  satisfy  him.  He  seldom  tried  to  draw 
objects  or  views;  it  was  conditions,  powers,  influ- 
ences, elements  that  he  groped  after,  always  with  the 
result  of  disillusion  and  unhappiness.  Once  when 
he  was  twelve  years  old  he  had  been  missed  for  a 
whole  autumn  day  of  storm,  and  had  been  discovered 
sitting  on  a  hillside  with  a  damp  sketch-book  covered 
with  weird  lines,  and  confessedly  trying  to  draw  the 
wind.  His  Aunt  Leonora  had  spoken  very  seriously 
to  him  about  it. 

"  Apart  from  such  a  thing  being  nonsense,"  she 
had  said,  holding  the  wet  paper  between  a  dainty 
finger  and  thumb,  "  there's  something  that  isn't 
right  about  it.  God  made  the  wind  invisible  for 
some  good  purpose  that  we  don't  understand,  and  to 
try  to  make  a  picture  of  it  would  be  almost  wicked- 
ness, if  it  wasn't  just  thoughtlessness.  Why,  Ru- 
pert," she  had  added,  laughing,  "  it's  the  kind  of 
thing  a  mad  person  would  do !  Give  me  a  kiss,  and 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  21 

go  and  see  if  Jane  has  finished  making  that  toffee 
we  spoke  about !  " 

So  he  had  given  up  trying  to  draw  the  wind,  but 
he  often  tried  to  draw  the  movement  of  water,  as 
he  saw  it  in  the  endless  lines  and  circles  of  the 
eddies.  The  sketch  which  lay  before  him,  and  at 
which  he  looked  with  dissatisfaction,  consisted  of 
little  more  than  a  single  line  enclosing  the  moving 
water,  with  a  few  other  lines  and  minute  mosaic  of 
dots  and  patches,  representing  the  shore  above  it. 
Into  the  lower  left  hand  corner  was  crushed  the 
figure  of  a  seal ;  the  rest  of  the  paper  was  blank  but 
for  a  delicate  tracery  of  dotted  lines  in  the  centre 
of  the  current;  it  was  the  wonderful  enclosing  line 
that  gave  to  the  white  paper  an  unerring  suggestion 
of  the  brimming,  moving  current.  The  seal,  with 
its  stooping,  liquid  pose,  and  elaborately  curved 
whiskers,  was  a  mere  symbol  —  of  what  Rupert  him- 
self could  hardly  have  told.  The  coat  was  drawn 
like  a  damasked  fabric,  its  face  was  sinister  and 
leering,  its  eyes  and  brow  were  the  eyes  and  brow 
of  a  woman,  and  in  its  expression  and  pose  it  was 
like  a  vicious  and  malevolent  dandy.  In  all  Rupert's 
drawings  there  was  some  such  figure,  looking  on  at 
the  scene  like  an  outsider  —  generally  it  was  a  bird, 
or  a  fish,  or  a  woman,  although  sometimes  he  in- 
vented a  beast  for  himself,  with  curving  claws  and 
a  scaly  back,  and  a  woman's  streaming  hair  that 
flowed  away  on  the  water.  These  figures  often  filled 
him  with  a  vague  terror;  he  deliberately  deformed 
their  features,  giving  them  sinister  slits  for  eyes,  and 


22  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

gaping  mouths,  swollen,  munching  cheeks,  or  pro- 
truding tongues ;  and  he  would  put  delicate,  dancing 
hooved  legs  on  to  swollen  bodies,  half  enamoured, 
half  ashamed  of  his  grotesques. 

He  was  pleased  enough  with  the  seal,  which  was 
thus  true  to  his  imagination,  and  expressed  some- 
thing that  he  had  no  words  or  thoughts  for;  but 
when  he  looked  from  his  sketch  to  the  slackening 
stream  of  the.  tide,  his  heart  sank.  It  was  not  what 
he  wanted;  it  never  was  what  he  wanted,  although 
often  he  came  near  enough  to  see  in  imagination 
the  fluttering  garments  of  the  nymph  he  was  pursu- 
ing just  vanishing  from  sight.  He  laid  aside  his 
sketch-book,  rested  his  chin  on  his  hand,  and  listened. 

In  the  silence  of  his  immediate  environment  the 
gentle  multitudinous  sounds  of  the  tide  crowded  in 
upon  him.  Little  murmurs  and  sighs,  where  the 
stream  slid  past  a  fringe  of  thirsty  seaweed;  pro- 
found hummings  like  the  notes  of  an  organ,  where 
the  advancing  flood  poured  itself  through  some  nar- 
row opening  into  a  deep  basin;  minute  bubblings, 
where  upon  the  very  margin  of  some  fragment  of 
strand,  sheltered  by  an  outward  barrier  of  rock,  each 
succeeding  froth  of  water  laid  itself  on  the  pearly 
sand  with  the  softness  of  a  child's  kiss;  mutterings 
and  gurglings,  where  the  white  foam,  crumbled  on 
the  circle  of  the  Priest's  Mother ;  mellow  harmonies, 
deep  firm  chords,  prolonged  sobs  and  litanies,  where 
the  wild  channel  waters  were  checked  on  the  bar — • 
these  all  had  their  part,  the  tenor  forces  of  the  great 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  23 

chorus  that  sounded  upon  that  shore.  From  with- 
out, beyond  the  bar,  where  a  line  of  darker  blue 
showed  the  edge  of  the  race  that  is  for  ever  hurrying 
up  or  down  past  the  entrance  to  the  lough,  came 
faintly  the  deep  fundamental  note  or  noise  of  the 
sea.  Upon  it  all  the  melodies  of  tides  and  currents, 
eddies,  whirls,  and  indraughts  continually  modulated 
and  resolved  like  chromatic  harmonies  on  a  pedal 
point;  above  it  the  cries  of  sea  birds  and  the  faint 
noises  of  land  life  completed  the  symphony. 

As  the  tide  rose  steadily,  the  volume  of  these 
sounds  seemed  to  rise  with  it.  Under  its  calm  breast 
there  was  surely  contained  an  immense  excitement 
and  emotion,  a  vast  impulse  that  seemed  to  rush 
from  the  centre  of  the  current  outwards  under  the 
surface  until  it  broke  and  escaped  in  foam  and  froth 
on  the  shore.  Rupert  felt  this  mysterious  vitality 
strongly  within  himself;  so  much  of  his  life  and 
thought  were  centred  in  the  sea,  that  his  physical 
nature  responded  to  it,  and  in  a  sense  kept  time  with 
the  tides.  When  the  stream  was  flowing  he  was 
conscious  of  a  more  generous  inspiration,  an  affluent 
and  sanguine  vitality  that  culminated  at  high  water 
in  an  overflow  of  good  spirits  and  infectious  gaiety 
that  made  him  at  such  times  a  delightful  companion. 
But  with  the  ebb  there  often  seemed  to  come  a  cor- 
responding effluence  in  the  currents  of  his  life,  a 
sensation  of  emptiness  and  apathy,  as  though  the 
world  held  no  good  thing ;  and  this  depression  lasted 
until  the  coarse  seaweeds  revealed  in  the  bottom  of 


24  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

the  ebb  were  covered  again  and  the  water  was  return- 
ing to  the  half -tide  rocks  and  pools. 

And  now  as  the  waters  poured  into  the  lough,  the 
puzzled,  dissatisfied  look  left  his  face;  he  had  be- 
come one  with  the  spirit  of  the  place  and  of  those 
strange,  fluent,  secret  companions  that  passed  so  often 
before  his  eyes  on  their  journey  in  or  out  of  the  lough 
to  the  faery  region  of  dawn  or  sunset  that  they 
doubtless  inhabited.  Their  murmurs  made  music 
in  his  ears,  so  sweet  that  once  or  twice,  at  some  deli- 
cate change  in  their  rushing  tune  that  only  a  sensi- 
tive ear  could  detect,  a  smile  parted  his  lips  for  a 
moment,  and  a  tremor  of  pleasure  rippled  through 
his  body. 

And  still  in  volume  and  intensity  the  sounds  of 
the  tide  increased;  and  its  movement  also  began  to 
increase,  as  though  the  joy  of  its  influence  had  con- 
quered even  the  large  restraints  which  it  obeyed. 
A  sense  of  impatient  exultation  began  to  reveal  itself 
on  the  face  of  the  waters  that  were  now  sliding  in 
through  the  narrows  so  fast  that  the  further  shore 
seemed  to  Rupert's  eyes  to  be  rushing  out  to  sea.  An 
almost  lyrical  movement  of  passionate  joy  hovered 
and  flitted  over  the  great  moving  azure  surface.  The 
Priest's  Mother,  true  to  her  unalterable  laws,  ceased 
to  foam  and  thunder  at  half-tide ;  but  it  seemed  now 
as  though  some  special  reason  had  governed  her 
quietude,  and  as  though  every  force  in  the  sea  had 
concentrated  itself  on  the  one  inward  movement. 
Smooth  as  a  table  though  the  main  body  of  water 
was,  tiny  corrugations,  little  chuckling  wavelets, 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  25 

frothings  and  breakings  of  miniature  seas  began  to 
animate  it  like  laughter.  Small  eddies  appeared 
spinning,  and  travelled  half  a  mile  up  the  broad  blue 
band  before  they  disappeared  again,  spinning.  The 
seaweeds  fringing  the  steep  rocks,  now  almost  cov- 
ered to  high  water  mark,  swung  with  a  rhythmical 
movement,  stretching  themselves  out,  each  branch 
and  frond  separate,  towards  the  centre  of  the  cur- 
rent ;  and  where  it  flowed  rapidly  past  some  stone  or 
deep-water  rock  it  brushed  the  weeds  almost  rudely 
in  its  direction,  while  they  leaned  against  the  force 
of  the  stream,  momentarily  springing  back  a  little, 
momentarily  giving  way. 

The  sea-gulls  and  guillemots  and  puffins  grew 
more  excited  and  cried  more  insistently,  intoxicated 
by  the  flowing  of  the  water  and  by  the  presence  of 
the  food  it  was  carrying  in.  Sea  anemones  in  the 
rock  pools  opened  out  like  flowers  as  they  felt  the 
cool  waters  laving  them  again ;  limpets  by  thousands 
loosened  their  hold  on  the  rocks,  and  renewed  their 
life  in  the  same  beneficent  influence ;  and  from  the 
centre  of  the  flood  itself  a  long  faint  furrow  flowed 
out  diagonally  to  each  shore,  and  faded  away,  and 
appeared  again,  as  the  majestic  fluent  power  per- 
sisted and  increased.  And  hot  and  windless  though 
the  day  was,  great  waves  or  airs  of  coolness  at  inter- 
vals swept  over  Gunn's  Island,  rhythmic  like  the 
tidal  furrows  in  their  regular  coming,  and,  borne 
in  like  them  with  the  tide,  part  of  its  sweetening  and 
renewing  force,  obedient  like  it  to  the  source  and 
pulse  of  all  life;  and  thus  while  the  waters  in  the 


26  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

lough  were  renewed,  the  mellow  reviving  airs  swept 
over  its  shores,  salt  and  strong,  and  fragrant  of  the 
far-away  windy  spaces  of  the  ocean. 

Higher  and  higher  crept  the  line  of  waters  against 
the  rocks  —  so  high  that  from.  Rupert's  perch  the 
whole  land  seemed  to  be  foundering  and  settling  down 
into  the  sea.  Laughter  of  little  waves  and  ripples, 
suckings  and  plungings  under  hollows  in  the  rocks, 
manifested  the  coming  of  the  supreme  moment;  but 
still  the  waters  flowed  on  and  in,  and  still,  beyond 
the  bar,  lay  quiet  and  undisturbed  the  eternal  sea. 

The  spirit  of  its  smile,  mild,  inscrutable,  melan- 
choly, is  in  that  word.  The  boy  sitting  on  the  hoary 
rock  round  which  this  flood  of  newness  and  youth 
was  pouring,  who  had  forgotten  his  own  affairs  in 
the  contemplation  of  its  calm  indifference,  was  yet 
at  this  moment  the  creature  of  its  endless,  effortless 
commands.  Come !  it  calls,  and  races  and  dynasties 
rise  from  its  savage  and  stormy  nurseries.  Come! 
and  men  go  forth  in  navies  to  found  empires  and 
imperishable  traditions.  Come!  and  the  solitary 
fisherman,  fearing  and  hating  it,  goes  daily  forth  to 
a  battle  against  certain  odds.  Come!  and  women 
shudder  and  weep,  and  drown  their  hearts  in  its 
depths.  Yet  it  moves  not  one  hairsbreadth  from  its 
appointed  course;  and  the  bubble  on  the  sand,  the 
overfall  on  the  rocky  shelf,  the  race  that  keeps  its 
sentry-go  in  the  channel,  are  but  partners  in  the  vast 
minuet  of  the  tides  that  advance  and  retreat,  and  pull 
and  thrust,  and  pour  in  and  pour  out,  and  make  way 
here,  and  hurry  round  there,  and  mingle  and  curtsey 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  27 

and  rise  and  fall  in  cycles  of  hours  and  years  and 
centuries  throughout  the  world. 

The  boy  sitting  on  the  rock,  his  ears  filled  with 
their  mellow,  heart-breaking  music,  thought  sud- 
denly the  inevitable  thought  of  youth  —  how  long 
they  were  here  before  me,  how  long  they  will  remain 
after  me !  The  same  rocks,  the  same  tides,  the  same 
sounds,  a  thousand  years  ago,  a  thousand  years  hence 
—  and  I  no  more  than  a  ripple  that  smiles  for  a 
moment  on  their  surface !  A  sudden  sense  of  small- 
ness  and  loneliness  oppressed  him,  and  his  clear  face 
clouded  with  trouble ;  but  the  even  diapason,  sound- 
ing now  kindly  and  reassuring,  continued  to  fill  his 
ears:  a  lark  sang  to  him  somewhere  over  the  shore; 
and  presently  the  gloom  left  his  face,  and  he  listened 
while  the  roar  of  the  tide  little  by  little  began  to 
fail  and  grow  less.  Its  falling  note  charmed  him  into 
a  profound  abstraction. 

Gradually  the  murmurs  of  the  tide  sank  and 
ceased ;  its  song  was  ended ;  and  all  round  the  shores 
the  waters  stood  brimming  at  the  highest  mark  of 
spring  tides.  The  solemn  mystery  was  accomplished, 
or  on  the  very  verge  of  accomplishment ;  for  though 
no  movement  was  discernible  in  the  great  blue  mir- 
ror into  which  the  sky  shone,  the  last  ripples  of  its 
pulse  were  languidly  passing  over  the  surface  and 
spending  themselves  imperceptibly  on  the  shore. 
Even  the  sea  birds  had  ceased  their  crying,  as>  though 
they  also  were  charmed  into  silence,  and  they  clus- 
tered on  the  small  uncovered  surface  of  the  rocks,  or 


28  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

wheeled  silently  in  the  air.  The  perches  and  bea- 
cons seemed  to  have  sunk  down  to  their  chins  in  the 
brimming  flood,  as  the  land  itself  seemed  to  have 
shrunk  in  size  when  the  tide  had  thrown  its  garment 
of  silver  and  azure  upon  the  shores.  Under  the 
rocks  the  seaweeds,  no  longer  brushed  aside  by  the 
current,  leaned,  golden  and  languorous,  on  the  water, 
or  swayed  and  trembled  in  the  clear  green  depths  as 
though  intoxicated  with  the  passion  of  the  moment. 
Calmest  of  all,  the  pellucid  depths  where  the  whirl- 
pool slept,  and  where  it  would  appear  with  the  first 
impulse  of  the  ebb,  rested  and  shone  under  Rupert's 
gaze,  below  his  very  feet.  For  a  minute,  perhaps, 
Nature  seemed  to  hold  her  breath,  abandoning  her- 
self to  the  sweet  enervating  dream  of  a  repose  she 
can  never  know.  Up  on  the  cliff  the  boy  held  his 
breath  also,  his  lips  slightly  parted,  his  eyes  gazing 
fascinated  at  the  water. 

Slowly,  so  slowly  that  the  eye  strained  to  follow  it, 
the  smooth  oily  floor  beneath  him  seemed  to  tilt  and 
to  come  towards  him  with  a  dizzy  sinking  movement. 
Two  fields  of  water  began,  slowly,  deliberately,  to 
change  their  places,  one  coming  towards  him,  one 
sliding  away  from  him,  each  beginning  to  turn  and 
revolve  upon  itself,  and  to  circle  after  the  other. 
Still  not  a  ripple  disturbed  the  surface;  and  the 
movements  of  the  water  were  so  slow  that  they  fasci- 
nated his  gaze,  which  was  concentrated  on  that  sink- 
ing displacement.  As  he  looked  on  it,  as  the  great 
fluid  wheel  began  to  spin  and  sink,  the  island  on 
which  he  sat  seemed  also  to  turn  and  slowly  to  spin 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  29 

upon  itself,  and  to  tilt  its  base  upwards  into  the  air. 
The  opposite  shore  he  felt  rather  than  saw  to  be 
advancing  on  him,  and  the  whole  floor  of  the  sea  to 
be  swimmingly  tilted,  and  the  very  rock  on  which  he 
sat  to  be  floating  unstably  in  space.  The  wheel  of 
water  turned  a  little  faster,  sinking  still  towards  the 
middle,  a  great  ring  of  wavelets  breaking  upon  its 
edge.  Presently  a  twirling  hole  appeared  at  the 
centre  of  depression.  It  began  to  circle  faster,  swing- 
ing and  tilting  this  way  and  that.  Every  movement 
quickened;  the  shores  were  spinning,  the  sea  was 
spinning,  the  great  wheel  was  spinning;  the  perches 
and  beacons  began  to  circle  round  the  horizon;  the 
sky  was  spinning  and  falling,  the  world  wheeling 
and  heaving. 

Rupert  turned  suddenly  away,  like  one  who  breaks 
a  spell  violently;  and  gathering  up  his  basket  and 
books  went  across  to  the  shoreward  side  of  the  island, 
out  of  sight  of  the  sea.  He  made  sure  that  his  boat 
was  riding  safely  in  her  creek,  and  then  settled  down 
to  work.  So  long  he  sat  there,  silently  absorbed,  that 
to  the  gulls  sailing  high  over  his  head  he  must  have 
appeared  like  one  of  the  rocks,  part  of  the  wide  land- 
scape that  their  round  hungry  eyes  searched  so  care- 
fully. 


n 

IT  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  Rupert  brought 
his  boat  to  her  moorings  in  the  little  sound  that 
divided  the  Abbacy  House  from  the  shore.  The 
island  was  just  big  enough  to  contain  the  house  and 
gardens ;  the  house  had  been  built  by  a  former  Sav- 
age when  the  Abbacy  or  Manor  Farm  had  come  into 
the  family,  and  was  a  rambling  two-storied  affair, 
looking  out  to  the  west  over  the  blue  waters  of  the 
lough  and  the  dim  hills  beyond,  and  almost  over- 
shadowed by  the  belt  of  tall  trees  that  grew  on  the 
edge  of  the  shore  and  stretched  their  branches  over 
the  narrow  sound.  At  low  water  a  stone  causeway 
gave  access  to  the  mainland  and  the  shore  road,  but 
at  high  water  the  sea  filled  the  winding  sound  and 
brimmed  up  to  the  edge  of  the  lawn,  which  was 
shored  up  and  timbered  like  a  quay  side,  and  had  a 
little  dock  or  tidal  harbour  in  it,  so  that  at  high 
water  the  masts  of  Rupert's  little  fleet  showed  like 
golden  shafts  amid  the  cypresses  and  elms  of  the 
garden. 

As  he  came  up  into  the  garden  there  was  a  great 
cawing  and  commotion  among  the  rooks  in  the  trees 
by  the  shore;  and  presently  they  rose  with  a  whir- 
ring of  wings  and  sailed  away  across  the  lough,  and 

30 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  31 

the  silence  fell  deep  again.  He  went  in  at  the  open 
door,  laid  down  his  basket,  and  shouted  — 

"  Aunties !  " 

There  was  a  rustle  of  silk  on  the  landing  above, 
and  a  very  trim  and  rather  old-fashioned  lady  of 
sixty-five,  who  looked  like  fifty,  came  bustling  down 
the  stairs. 

"  Well,  Rupert^  you've  got  back !  "  She  kissed 
him  affectionately.  "  What  a  glorious  day !  I'm 
sure  you're  hungry  —  indeed,  I  would  just  think  you 
were  starved  after  such  a  long  day  on  the  water; 
but  tea  will  be  ready  presently.  Auntie  Jane  is  in 
the  drawing-room  just  finishing  a  letter.  Are  you 
sure  your  feet  aren't  wet  ?  And  Thomas  Quinn  was 
here  this  afternoon  to  say  that  Elliot's  cart  will  be 
coming  out  to-morrow  from  Rathshene,  and  they'll 
bring  the  lead  then.  I'm  afraid  he  has  been  drink- 
ing —  he  was  looking  not  at  all  himself.  I  said  to 
him,  '  Thomas,  isn't  it  a  shame  for  you  to  be  in  this 
state,  with  such  a  good  wife  as  you  have,  and  every 
one  willing  to  help  you  to  keep  steady  ? '  And  he 
just  said,  *  'Deed,  mem,  and  that's  the  truth ;  but 
the  Prodestan'  boys  were  out  last  night  after  the 
Papishers,  and  I  doubt  some  of  us  finished  up  at 
Foley's!'" 

"  What  a  rascal !  "  said  Rupert,  smiling.  "  I'll 
give  him  a  talking  to  when  I  see  him.  Just  now  I 
sympathize,  because  I'm  so  thirsty  myself.  I'm  dy- 
ing for  tea." 

"  You  shall  have  it  in  a  minute,  my  poor  boy," 
and  the  rustle  of  silk,  accompanied  by  a  jingle  of 


32  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

keys,  disappeared  under  a  dark  doorway  leading  to 
the  pantry,  whence  an  odour  of  spices  came  out  into 
the  house. 

It  was  always  like  this  —  no  thought  but  for  Ru- 
pert's comfort,  Rupert's  welfare,  in  the  hearts  of  the 
two  old  aunts  whom  he  loved  and  tyrannized  over. 
They  belonged  to  a  social  order  fast  disappearing 
even  from  Ireland,  where  the  tides  of  change  rise 
slowly,  but  none  the  less  surely,  loosening  the  old 
landmarks,  gently  washing  away  a  world  that  is 
rooted  in  the  soil,  and  crumbles  and  changes  shape 
only  with  it.  The  two  old  ladies  and  Rupert  repre- 
sented the  last  of  the  Savages,  once  a  great  family 
owning  vast  tracts  of  land  on  those  fertile  shores, 
but  now  so  dwindled  that  little  except  the  name,  the 
dignity,  and  whatever  inheritance  of  quality  and 
character  is  incorruptible  in  a  family  remained  to 
grace  the  possession  of  a  few  hundred  acres,  and  a 
street  of  houses  in  the  adjoining  little  town  of  Rath- 
shene.  Rupert's  mother  had  died  when  he  was  a 
baby ;  his  father,  a  distant  cousin  of  the  same  name, 
and  an  engaging  ne'er-do-well,  entirely  affectionate 
and  uneconomic,  who  had  inherited  a  fair  property 
in  Donegal,  had  lost  and  wasted  it  all  in  disastrous 
attempts  at  horse-breeding,  and  had  spent  his  latter 
days  at  the  Abbacy,  mismanaging  the  affairs  of  his 
sisters-in-law  to  their  entire  satisfaction.  Fortu- 
nately for  them  and  for  himself,  he  died  while  he 
was  still  in  the  belief  that  he  was  of  use  to  the  world. 
He  also  was  of  Ireland ;  anywhere  else  such  a  char- 
acter would  have  degenerated  into  complete  ruin  and 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  33 

disrepute;  only  there,  where  people  are  so  humanly 
tolerant,  his  dignity  and  charming  nature  resisted 
corruption,  so  that  he  was  merely  useless,  and  never 
base. 

He  had  early  initiated  the  boy  into  the  mysteries 
of  boats,  guns,  and  horses ;  schooling  him  in  seaman- 
ship, drilling  him  in  the  coverts  with  the  twenty- 
bore  gun  that  was  his  last  gift,  teaching  him  to  look 
with  knowledge  on  hocks  and  withers  and  pasterns, 
showing  him  the  bays  where  salmon  and  mullet  could 
be  netted,  navigating  the  swift  tides  and  charmed 
sounds  and  channels  of  the  great  island-studded 
lough;  and  generally  inculcating  in  him  a  fine  per- 
ception of  quality  in  all  outdoor  things  that  pertain 
to  the  enjoyment  of  man.  Rupert  soon  caught  his 
father's  infectious  intolerance  of  a  badly-hung  gate, 
an  ill-tied  knot,  a  wrongly-pruned  tree,  a  wrinkled 
sail,  and  all  ready-made,  commercial  articles  what- 
soever. Time  and  patient  labour  were  the  hall- 
marks of  everything ;  and  as  there  was  an  abundance 
of  both  at  the  Abbacy,  buildings,  boats,  gardens,  and 
farms,  all  displayed  in  a  high  degree  that  style  or 
technical  perfection  which  is  the  delight  of  the  edu- 
cated enthusiast.  That  everything  in  the  end  cost 
twice  as  much  as  was  necessary,  and  that  the  estate 
did  not  pay,  was  the  defect  of  Arthur  Savage's  qual- 
ities. 

To  Rupert  he  was  a  sunny  compound  of  memories 
and  the  impersonation  of  the  ideal  in  all  outdoor 
affairs.  To  shoot  like  his  father,  to  round  up  a  boat 
to  her  moorings  in  a  stiff  breeze  of  wind  with  every 


34  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

sail  set,  like  his  father ;  to  "  carry  on  "  in  a  squall 
himself,  and  to  regard  it  as  rather  ill-bred  foolhardi- 
ness  in  anybody  else,  like  his  father  —  these  were 
Rupert's  earliest  ambitions,  and  they  remained  with 
him  throughout  his  life.  He  had  been  too  young  to 
recognize  his  father's  defects  while  he  was  alive,  and 
was  too  loyal  —  and  in  some  ways  too  like  him  —  to 
acknowledge  them  after  he  was  dead ;  and  this  store 
of  affection,  with  an  income  of  about  two  hundred 
pounds  a  year,  was  Arthur  Savage's  legacy  to  his  son. 
The  boy  had  no  guardian;  things  were  allowed  to 
take  their  course,  and  he  went  on  living  at  the  Abbacy 
with  his  aunts,  the  Miss  Savages,  as  every  one  called 
them,  coming  home  to  them  from  his  public  school 
in  England  with  affection  for  them  and  delight  in 
his  home  unabated. 

"  What  Rupert  was  to  do  "  was  a  subject  of  grave 
periodic  discussions  in  the  Abbacy  House ;  they  had 
been  going  on  ever  since  he  was  fourteen,  and  were 
likely  to  go  on  indefinitely.  That  young  gentlemen 
of  limited  private  means  did,  in  these  latter  days, 
ultimately  go  out  into  the  world  was  dimly  recog- 
nized by  the  aunts,  who  fully  intended  that  Rupert 
should  be  an  ambassador  at  least  before  he  died; 
but  the  time  for  taking  the  necessary  steps  was 
always  in  the  future.  They  had  arrived  at  the  age 
when  young  people  never  seemed  to  them  to  grow 
up;  their  untroubled  virginity  had  become  a  kind 
of  element  or  atmosphere  in  which  the  people  they 
loved  breathed  and  lived;  and  Rupert,  in  spite  of 
his  twenty  years  and  tall  athletic  frame,  the  down 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  35 

on  his  lip,  and  the  resonant  voice  of  manhood,  was 
still  in  their  eyes  a  child  who  needed  all  the  care 
that  two  expert  nurses  could  give  him.  Formal  and 
ceremonious  concessions  to  his  growth  were  indeed 
made:  on  his  sixteenth  birthday  his  Aunt  Lavinia 
had  resigned  to  him  her  place  at  the  head  of  the 
table;  on  his  seventeenth  the  servants  had  been  sol- 
emnly instructed  to  call  him  "  Misther  Rupert "  in- 
stead of  "  Masther  Rupert  "  —  an  instruction  which 
they  often  forgot;  and  on  his  eighteenth  the  keys 
of  the  wine-cellar  and  the  duty  of  paying  the  outdoor 
wages  had  been  formally  handed  over  to  him.  But 
these  signs  of  Rupert's  growing  up  did  not  alarm 
the  security  of  his  aunts.  Time,  that  had  withered 
and  wrinkled  their  once  fair  bodies,  made  no  havoc 
in  their  hearts.  For  them  time  was  not,  and  they 
lived  for  Rupert  as  though  he  would  always  be  a 
child,  and  themselves  always  be  there  to  guard  him 
from  the  world. 

He  was  protected  from  the  spoiling  effects  of  such 
a  life,  not  only  by  the  serious  and  absorbing  interest 
of  his  art,  but  by  a  certain  radiancy  of  physical 
health  that  permeated  all  his  young  growing  life. 
Living  as  he  did  in  an  extremely  simple  community 
that  was  held  intimately  together  in  a  mesh  of  af- 
fections, old  intimacies,  and  family  ties,  he  had 
never  found  it  necessary  to  be  anything  but  himself ; 
and  the  predominance  of  the  feminine  element  about 
him  developed  his  masculinity,  while  it  cultivated  in 
him  that  gift  of  imaginative  sympathy  and  under- 
standing that  is  usually  the  best  quality  in  a  man 


36  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

who  has  been  much  with  affectionate  women  in  his 
youth.  He  had  a  happy  temperament,  because  he 
was  delighted  with  his  surroundings,  and  never  ques- 
tioned their  permanence;  and  he  was  unconstricted 
by  the  intellectual  narrowness  of  his  world,  because 
a  pencil  and  a  sheet  of  paper  could  always  release 
him  from  it. 

Andy,  the  aged  and  rather  shaky  factotum,  brought 
in  the  soup  and  sounded  the  gong,  and  the  two  old 
ladies  rustled  down  to  the  dining-room,  followed  by 
Rupert,  who  took  his  place  beneath  the  row  of  thin- 
lipped,  long-nosed  ancestors  who  had  looked  down 
upon  him  and  followed  him  with  their  eyes  in  and 
out  of  the  room  ever  since  he  was  a  baby.  Andy 
shuffled  about,  now  and  then  addressing  some  one 
in  an  undertone  as  he  handed  a  dish  —  incorrigibly 
privileged,  although  no  one  heeded  his  undertone. 
"  Just  another  spoonful,  mem  —  them's  fine  broth," 
or  "  Sure,  I  told  you  to  take  the  wings  off  first,  Mas- 
ther  Rupert  —  that's  no  kind  of  a  figure  to  make  of 
th'  old  bird ;  "  or,  handing  a  dish  of  new  potatoes  — 
"  That's  the  last  of  them,  mem."  These  murmurs 
were  usually  addressed  to  Miss  Jane,  the  younger 
and  more  practical  of  the  two  old  ladies,  on  whom  the 
cares  of  the  house  chiefly  devolved.  She  sat  opposite 
to  Rupert,  her  hair  divided  under  her  white  cap 
into  two  smooth  bands  of  silver  grey,  under  which 
her  ruddy  face  and  bright  brown  eyes  showed  that 
the  autumn  of  her  age  was  a  very  sunny  one. 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  you  eating  such  a  good  dinner, 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  37 

Rupert,"  she  said.  "  It's  hardly  fit  for  a  growing 
young  man  like  you  to  eat  nothing  all  day  but  a  few 
sandwiches." 

She  used  the  term  "  young  man  "  as  one  uses  it 
to  boys  of  twelve.  Rupert  smiled  good-humouredly. 

"  I'm  afraid  my  circumference  is  the  only  thing 
that'll  grow  any  more,  auntie,  I  say,  how  good  these 
peas  are  !  Aren't  they  very  early  ?  " 

"  They  came  from  the  Castle  garden,  but  I'm 
afraid  she  hasn't  put  quite  enough  butter  in  them. 
I  don't  know  what's  come  over  Anne  lately ;  I  think 
she  must  be  fretting  about  her  mother,  poor  old  soul." 
And  they  talked  on  about  the  minutest  trivialities  — 
chiefly,  indeed,  about  the  dinner  itself  and  the  influ- 
ences bearing  on  its  goodness  or  badness  —  just  the 
meaningless  chatter  of  a  family  of  human  beings 
eating  in  company,  touched  in  this-  case  with  a  cer- 
tain delicate  anxious  humanity,  because  two  of  the 
family  were  well-bred  old  ladies  and  kind,  and  one 
a  youth  whose  eyes  had  seen  only  the  sunshine  of 
life. 

They  sat  afterwards  in  the  drawing-room  with  the 
windows  open  to  the  sun,  that  was  setting  behind  the 
dark  hills  across  the  water.  A  cutter  yacht,  creep- 
ing down  the  lough  with  hardly  a  breath  of  wind  in 
her  sails,  glided  close  up  to  the  steep  rocks  on  which 
the  outer  wall  of  the  house  was  built.  The  people 
sitting  in  the  lighted  windows  were  clearly  visible  to 
the  occupants  of  the  yacht,  for  presently  there  was  a 
hail  — 

"  Rupert  ahoy !  " 


38  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

"  Hullo !  "  sang  out  Rupert 

"  We're  going  for  a  picnic  up  to  Green  Island 
Sound  on  Monday.  Russell  is  bringing  the  Thistle 
and  the  Moores  are  taking  the  steam  launch.  Will 
you  come  ?  Good  evening,  Miss  Jane ;  I  can  see  you 
better  than  you  can  see  me !  " 

"It's  Hamilton,"  said  Rupert.  "Yes,  I'll  come 
—  rather;  with  pleasure.  What  time?  Eleven? 
All  right."  And  the  white  sails  glided  away,  and  the 
voices  from  the  yacht  grew  fainter. 

"  Dear  me,"  said  Aunt  Leonora,  "  the  Moore  girls 
must  have  come,  then.  We  must  really  go  and  call, 
Jane.  And  the  nieces  are  staying  with  Mrs.  Hamil- 
ton, and  there's  Lady  Fastnet  at  Ballyculter,  so  you'll 
be  quite  gay,  Rupert,  with  all  those  young  ladies! 
It'll  be  a  good  thing  to  take  you  away  from  your 
drawing  for  a  day." 


Ill 

RUPERT  woke  up  next  morning  with  that  curi- 
ous consciousness  of  Sunday  known  only  to  Protes- 
tant youth.  It  was  in  the  sunbeams  that  slanted 
into  his  bedroom,  it  was  in  the  drowsy  hum  of 
bees  amid  the  garden  flowers,  in  the  undisturbed 
whistling  and  singing  of  the  birds.  He  turned  over 
in  bed  once  or  twice,  then  looked  at  his  watch ;  it  was 
only  half-past  six.  He  was  wide  awake,  and  pres- 
ently he  got  up,  bathed,  and  began  to  dress,  discard- 
ing the  loose  flannel  garments  of  week-days,  and 
searching  out  stiff  shirts,  folded  clothes,  white  col- 
lars. It  was  part  of  the  observance  of  the  day,  in  this 
Protestant  corner  of  Ireland,  that  everything  should 
be  different  from  other  days. 

The  house  seemed  still  asleep  as  he  went  quietly 
downstairs  and  out  through  the  open  windows  on  to 
the  lawn.  The  hush  of  Sunday  morning  was  upon 
everything.  The  clear  green  water,  as  smooth  as  a 
pond,  was  sliding  past  the  wooden  piers  supporting 
the  edge  of  the  lawn,  and  the  two  white  rowing-boats 
that  were  tied  up  there  tugged  steadily  but  furtively 
at  their  painters.  His  little  racing  cutter,  the  Maid 
of  Lome,  was  swinging  at  her  moorings ;  the  bubbles 
talking  under  her  planks ;  her  sails  all  trimly  furled ; 

39 


40  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

and  the  club  ensign,  only  flown  on  Sundays,  already 
floating  over  her  counter.  They  all,  on  this  day,  had 
the  double  attraction  of  forbidden  pleasures,  for  to  go 
out  for  amusement  in  a  boat  on  Sunday,  or  to  draw, 
or  splice  a  rope  or  ply  any  craft,  would  have  been 
a  grave  social  misdemeanour.  So  Rupert  merely 
looked  at  his  boats  with  redoubled  interest,  and 
(since  his  mind  did  not  observe  the  Sabbath)  seri- 
ously pondered  the  effect  of  adding  another  seven 
feet  to  the  Maid  of  Lome's  mast,  and  lengthening 
her  boom  and  bowsprit.  The  little  boat  might  have 
been  aware  of  his  thoughts,  for  she  began  to  swing 
round  a  little  on  the  current  until  she  was  end-on  to 
him,  as  though  to  say :  "  Yes,  look  at  my  beam ;  I 
can  stand  more  than  that !  "  Rupert  would  have 
given  a  great  deal  to  go  on  board  of  her  and  take  a 
few  measurements ;  he  wondered  how  he  could  ever 
wait  until  to-morrow;  but  habit,  and  consideration 
for  his  aunts  (who  were  stirring  by  this  time,  and 
could  have  seen  him  from  their  bedroom  windows), 
prevailed  against  his  impatience. 

He  turned  away,  and  passed  through  a  door  into 
the  walled  garden.  Even  at  that  early  hour  the  air 
there  was  warm  and  heavy,  and  the  bourdon  of  bees 
hung  over  the  flower-borders  like  a  perfume  too  heavy 
to  rise.  Rupert  hardly  ever  visited  the  garden  ex- 
cept on  Sundays,  when  his  hands  were  necessarily 
idle,  and  when  this  pleasure  of  the  senses  had  an 
opportunity  of  appealing  to  him.  As  he  walked 
slowly  up  and  down  the  gravel  path  between  the  trim 
borders,  he  breathed  the  perfumed  air  deeply  and 


WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS  41 

deliberately,  tasting  it  like  a  vintage,  and  consciously 
rejoicing  to  be  alive. 

He  stood  for  a  few  minutes  watching  a  suail  in  a 
damp  corner  luxuriously  dragging  itself  across  a  leaf, 
its  horns  pricking  straight  up  from  the  moist  black- 
ness of  its  head.  Something  in  its  gross  contentment 
and  obscure  sensuality  appealed  to  him ;  he  furtively 
took  out  a  pencil  and  a  fragment  of  paper,  turned 
his  back  on  the  snail,  and  began  to  draw.  And  as  he 
worked  the  lines  of  discontent  again  appeared  in  his 
face ;  he  looked  up  at  a  chaffinch  which  was  uttering 
its  bell-like  sequence  from  the  branch  of  an  apple- 
tree  close  by,  and  then  suddenly,  with  a  gesture  of 
disgust,  crumpled  up  the  paper  and  trod  it  into  the 
earth.  Then  he  felt  hungry  and  went  in  to  breakfast. 

They  drove  to  church  along  the  shore  road; 
flanked  on  one  side  by  the  trees  of  Rathshene 
demesne,  and  on  the  other  by  the  rocks  and  pebbles 
of  the  beach.  Aunt  Jane  was  severely  occupied  with 
her  prayer-book;  but  Aunt  Leonora  was  in  a  remi- 
niscent mood,  talking  of  people  long  dead,  who  had 
looked  on  those  scenes  and  driven  along  that  road 
before  them.  Rupert  listened  with  interest,  knowing 
by  experience  that  these  wandering  comments  led 
often  into  the  most  interesting  and  human  stories  of 
the  dead  past.  A  direct  question  would  as  likely  as 
not  dry  up  the  pretty  fountain  of  memories  that  bub- 
bled in  the  old  lady's  mind ;  but  Rupert  was  skilful 
in  steering  the  talk  in  promising  directions  without 
appearing  to  be  too  interested. 


42  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

"  Oh,  really  ? "  he  said,  at  the  end  of  a  long 
story  about  an  uninteresting  great-aunt ;  "  I  never 
knew  that  you  and  Aunt  Jane  had  lived  at  Carrs- 
town." 

"  We  never  lived  there,  dear,  but,  as  I  was  telling 
you,  we  stayed  there  once  with  our  Aunt  Dalzell  - 
when  that  curious  thing  happened  about  the  visitor." 

"  You  mean  the  visitor  who  —  ?  " 

"  Did  I  never  tell  you  about  that  ?  Dear  me,  your 
father  used  to  like  hearing  about  that.  Oh,  there's 
no  story  in  it,  it's  just  a  thing  that  happened.  Your 
aunt  and  I  were  staying  with  our  Aunt  Dalzell; 
Uncle  Thomas  had  been  dead  for  three  years,  and 
I  was  seventeen.  The  three  of  us  were  alone  in  the 
house  except  for  the  servants,  who  were  all  women; 
and  it  was  June.  We  had  just  come  down  to  break- 
fast one  morning  when  we  saw  a  stranger  walking 
slowly  up  the  drive,  stopping  to  smell  the  flowers. 
You  know  that  the  house  at  Carrstown  is  nearly  two 
miles  from  the  road,  and  isn't  on  the  way  to  any 
place,  so  you  can  think  how  surprised  we  were.  We 
knew  every  one  within  twenty  miles  round  us,  and 
visitors  weren't  so  common  with  us  that  we  didn't 
know  all  about  them  long  before  they  came  to  stay 
with  any  one. 

"  He  sauntered  along  very  slowly,  looking  about 
him  as  though  he  were  enjoying  the  morning  air. 
He  had  no  hat  on  his  head,  and  carried  no  stick  or 
gloves;  you  would  just  think  he  had  walked  out  of 
the  house.  As  he  came  nearer  we  could  see  that  he 
was  very  handsome  —  oh,  such  a  really  distinguished 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  43 

face  as  he  had !  He  was  beautifully  dressed,  and 
you  would  have  said  that  he  was  quite  a  young  man, 
except  that  his  hair  —  he  had  long,  wavy  hair  —  was 
grey." 

Aunt  Jane  lifted  her  face  from  her  prayer-book. 
"  Indeed  it  was  not  grey,  Leonora ;  there  may  have 
been  a  little  grey  on  the  temples,  but  his  hair  was 
as  brown  as  Kupert's !  "  And  she  resumed  her  study 
of  the  psalms  for  the  day. 

"  Your  aunt  was  a  good  deal  younger  than  I  was, 
and  perhaps  doesn't  remember  so  clearly,"  went  on 
Miss  Leonora.  Rupert  looked  across  at  the  younger 
sister,  and  saw  her  smiling  almost  derisively  at  the 
book.  "  But  the  young  man  came  on  up  to  the  open 
window.  Of  course  Aunt  Dalzell  went  and  spoke 
to  him.  '  Oh,'  said  he,  '  I've  been  admiring  your 
beautiful  flowers  so  much.  It  fills  one's  heart  with 
poetry  to  see  them ! '  Those  were  his  words,  and  you 
could  tell  from  the  way  he  spoke  that  he  was  an  edu- 
cated man.  Such  beautiful  manners  as  he  had,  too! 
Even  Aunt  Dalzell  was  charmed  with  him,  and  asked 
him  to  stay  and  have  breakfast.  He  talked  about 
the  flowers  and  birds  in  a  way  that  enchanted  us; 
but  he  never  offered  to  say  anything  about  who  he 
was,  or  asked  any  questions  about  us,  and  we  began 
to  think  that  he  was  some  eccentric  visitor  staying 
at  Rathshene  that  we  hadn't  heard  of. 

"  Well,  he  stayed  all  the  morning,  walking  with 
us  about  the  garden  and  wood ;  he  was  delighted  with 
everything  we  showed  him,  and  he  stayed  to  lunch. 
After  lunch  Aunt  Dalzell  gave  him  a  hint,  and 


44  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

asked  could  we  drive  him  anywhere,  as  we  were  go- 
ing to  pay  a  visit;  but  he  just  said  No,  thank  you, 
he  couldn't  be  happier  than  he  was,  just  walking 
about!  and  as  he  didn't  show  any  signs  of  going 
away,  we  put  off  our  drive  and  sat  with  him  in  the 
garden,  and  he  repeated  poetry  to  us.  Such  a  mem- 
ory as  he  had !  And  he  had  a  beautiful  voice,  and 
you  could  see  he  felt  what  he  said,  and  we  were  all 
enchanted  to  listen  to  him.  I  remember  one  verse 
that  he  repeated;  and  the  beauty  of  it  wasn't  so 
much  in  the  words  as  in  the  way  he  said  it : 

" '  Pale  gentle  flower,  with  petals  neat, 

And  shall  I  pluck  thee,  then  ? 
Nay,  rather  spare  a  thing  so  sweet, 
To  be  a  joy  to  men  ! ' ' 

The  old  lady  steadied  her  voice  against  the  shak- 
ing of  the  carriage  into  an  almost  hallowed  tone  — 
so  potently  did  the  unspoken  romance  of  that  June 
day  long  ago  linger  in  her  blood.  After  a  pause  she 
went  on. 

"  But  at  dinner-time,  as  he  showed  no  signs  of 
going,  Aunt  Dalzell  began  to  think  it  very  odd ;  and 
several  times  she  was  on  the  point  of  saying  some- 
thing definite  to  him,  but  he  disarmed  her  by  some 
amiable  or  charming  remark.  So  there  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  ask  him  to  stay  to  dinner;  and  after 
dinner  he  played  and  sang  to  us  so  delightfully  (he 
had  a  sweet  tenor  voice)  that  no  one  noticed  the  time, 
and  it  was  eleven  o'clock  before  we  realized  it.  It 
had  come  on  to  rain  heavily;  and  Aunt  Dalzell 


WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS  45 

couldn't  bring  herself  to  turn  the  stranger  out  of 
doors;  so  he  was  shown  to  a  bedroom.  Aunt  came 
down  afterwards,  and  said  she  had  locked  his  door 
from  the  outside;  and  she  took  away  all  the  silver 
and  locked  it  up.  When  he  wasn't  there  she  was  full 
of  indignation  at  him;  but  so  long  as  he  had  been 
with  us,  she  was  as  much  charmed  as  any  of  us. 

"  Well,  we  three  were  down  pretty  early  the  next 
morning,  you  may  be  sure ;  and  aunt  was  just  going 
to  slip  upstairs  to  unlock  the  stranger's  door,  when 
—  suddenly  he  was  in  the  room  with  us !  I  should 
tell  you  that,  apart  from  his  door  having  been  locked, 
the  stairs  were  very  creaky,  and  a  cat  couldn't  have 
come  down  without  being  heard.  Besides,  I  was 
facing  the  dining-room  door,  and  no  one  came  in; 
yet  there  he  was,  bowing  and  smiling,  and  asking 
us  how  we  had  slept !  We  were  all  a  little  frightened, 
but  Aunt  Dalzell  was  a  little  ashamed,  too,  of  having 
locked  up  the  silver,  and  she  was  very  nice  to  him. 
And  then  after  breakfast,  he  walked  out  on  to  the 
terrace,  and  just  disappeared!  No  one  saw  him  go 
away;  no  one  in  the  village  or  at  Eathshene  had  ever 
seen  such  a  person ;  he  seemed  to  drop  from  the  skies, 
and  to  go  back  to  them." 

"  But  do  you  mean  to  say,"  asked  Rupert,  "  that 
you  never  found  out  who  he  was,  or  anything  more 
about  him  ? " 

"  Never  certainly.  It  was  said  vaguely  that  he 
was  a  young  man  who  was  in  the  care  of  —  well,  of 
an  attendant,  and  that  the  attendant  had  missed  him 
the  day  before,  but  —  " 


46  WHEN  THE   TIDE  TURNS 

"  Leonora !  "  said  Miss  Jane,  shutting  her  prayer- 
book  with  a  snap.  "  I  really  wonder  at  you  repeat- 
ing that  untruth  to  Rupert,  when  you  know  very 
well  it  was  only  a  tale  of  Margaret  Haffy's  —  a 
horrid  girl,  I  always  thought  her." 

And  the  two  old  ladies  began  to  wrangle  politely 
over  the  details  of  the  quite  uninteresting  solution 
of  the  story  —  rather  pathetically,  as  Rupert  thought, 
whose  mind  was  filled  by  the  romantic  side  of  his 
aunt's  story  —  this  unknown  young  man,  with  his 
early  Victorian  elegancies,  and  hia  verses  and  posies, 
drifting  in  upon  the  pretty,  humdrum  world  of  the 
two  girls,  and  drifting  out  again,  leaving  the  foot- 
print of  romance  on  their  lives. 

The  story  had  brought  them  to  Rathshene;  and 
as  the  carriage  turned  up  the  straggling  High  Street 
there  were  people  on  foot  to  be  greeted  with  varying 
degrees  of  intimacy ;  the  old  ladies'  bow  to  Mr.  Greg- 
son,  the  lawyer,  with  his  bevy  of  daughters,  suggested 
a  certain  distance  exactly  but  cordially  preserved, 
while  a  most  formal  inclination  saluted  the  Wades 
and  their  English  visitors.  For  the  ragged  and  the 
poor,  curtseying  from  cottage  doors,  or  stepping  aside 
to  let  the  carriage  pass,  the  two  ladies  kept  their 
sweetest  and  kindliest  smiles. 

There  was  nothing  more  familiar  to  Rupert  than 
the  scene  inside  the  church,  where  since  childhood 
he  had  Sunday  by  Sunday  employed  every  device  of 
thought  and  imagination  to  make  tolerable  the  habit- 
ual vacancy  of  mind  induced  by  the  service.  He  had 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  47 

counted  everything  in  the  church  hundreds  of  times 

—  the  tiles  on  the  floor,  the  spoon-shaped  mouldings 
in  the  cornices,  the  panes  of  glass  in  the  leaded  win- 
dows and  the  pipes  of  the  organ ;   he  had  performed 
imaginary  acrobatic  feats  of  climbing  about  the  roof, 
and  jumping  from  moulding  to  moulding,  until  he 
had  got  quite  dizzy  in  his  pew.     But  latterly  he  had 
found  another  interest  for  these  irksome  hours  in 
a  critical  study  of  the  young  women  within  his  view 

—  those  whose  faces  lent  themselves  to  drawing,  and 
those  whose  faces  did  not;    those  whom  he  could 
imagine  himself  kissing,  and  those  who  shocked  his 
fastidiousness -in  that  matter.     One  by  one  they  had 
emerged  from  the  vague  background  into  the  field  of 
his  attention,  taking  on  each  her  own  individuality; 
every  Sunday,  at  this  time  of  his  life,  revealed  a  new 
face,  a  woman's  face  where  before  there  had  only 
been  a  lay  figure,  a  face  round  which  his  awakened 
imagination  could  play. 

Mary  O'Niell,  for  example,  who  for  years  had 
been  merely  a  splash  of  brown  and  white  in  the 
second  row  of  the  choir,  had  last  Sunday  revealed 
herself  as  an  extremely  pretty  girl  whose  brown  dress 
clothed  a  lissom  figure,  and  under  whose  white  hat 
lay  the  mysterious  coils  of  a  woman's  hair.  And 
there  were  others,  unknown  to  Rupert  even  by  name, 
people  who  came  in  to  church  from  distant  farms, 
who  engaged  his  attention  and  speculation.  One 
woman  especially,  who  sat  with  her  profile  to  him, 
who  to  his  unseeing  eyes  had  appeared  the  same  any 
time  for  the  last  ten  years,  had  interested  him  in 


48  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

a  vague  and  almost  distasteful  way.  She  was  always 
dressed  in  black,  her  hair  was  dark,  and  her  face, 
which  was  not  beautiful,  had  the  blank  paleness  of 
paper;  but  Rupert  found  his  eyes  constantly  stray- 
ing towards  her,  and  his  mind  and  curiosity  continu- 
ally engaged  with  her  —  so  much  so,  while  her  im- 
portance to  him  lasted,  that  if  she  were  not  in  church 
he  felt  that  the  day  was  doubly  blank.  He  was  care- 
ful never  to  find  out  who  she  was;  he  fastidiously 
kept  the  world  of  his  imagination  separate  from  the 
world  of  fact ;  and  nothing  would  have  induced  him 
to  speak  to  her. 

All  Rupert's  romances,  which  were  many,  had 
taken  place  hitherto  in  his  own  imagination.  Peo- 
ple, remarking  his  easy  and  self-possessed  manners, 
said  "  How  old  he  is  for  his  age !  "  But  really  he 
was  at  heart  so  intolerably  shy  that  he  was  afraid 
of  any  one  finding  out  what  a  mask  his  man-of-the- 
world  air  was.  To  old  people  and  to  married  women 
he  always  made  love  as  though  by  instinct,  paying 
ingratiating  court  to  them  which  they  found  delight- 
ful. With  the  young  women  whom  he  had  known 
from  early  boyhood  he  could  never  bring  himself 
even  to  flirt;  their  frank  familiarity  and  knowledge 
of  each  other  made  an  insurmountable  barrier. 

But  to-day,  with  the  coming  of  the  summer  visit- 
ors, the  familiar  objects  of  his  attention  were  over- 
shadowed by  several  young  women  whom  he  had  not 
seen  before ;  people  of  his  own  class,  dressed  in  the 
latest  fashion,  and  providing  his  critical  and  curious 
eyes  with  much  to  admire  in  their  clothes  as  well  as 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  49 

in  their  persons.  In  the  pew  with  Mrs.  Hamilton 
were  her  two  pretty  nieces,  who  seemed  to  have  bet- 
come  demurer  and  prettier  than  ever;  there  was  a 
whole  party  of  young  men  and  women  in  the  Rath- 
shene  pew  —  one  of  the  latter,  with  Titian  hair  and 
eyes  downcast  under  a  great  shady  hat,  intrigued 
his  curiosity;  but  it  was  a  strange  lady  sitting  by 
herself  a  few  pews  in  front  of  him  who  interested 
Rupert  most.  She  was  young,  but  not  girlish;  she 
had  a  slim  figure,  pale  gold  hair,  and  exquisite 
clothes ;  she  moved  gracefully,  she  had  an  indescrib- 
able air  of  composure  and  yet  of  alertness  that  en- 
gaged Rupert's  sympathies-  She  never  turned  her 
head,  although  she  seemed  to  see  out  of  the  back  of 
her  fair  neck.  Rupert  enjoyed  this  illusion  greatly; 
he  did  not  know  that  it  was  produced  by  the  lady's 
certainty  that  her  dress  fitted  her  back  admirably  and 
that  her  hair  was  well  done;  nor,  if  he  had  known 
it,  would  the  fact  have  interfered  with  his  pleasure. 
•  •••••••• 

He  longed  to  see  her  face,  but  she  kept  it  fixed 
on  her  prayer-book.  The  congregation  mumbled 
through  the  service  with  its  usual  confused  mutter, 
corrected  only  by  Mr.  Gregson,  who  articulated  every 
syllable  in  a  harsh  rolling  voice,  and  with  great  play 
of  lips,  and  who  consequently  recited  the  last  half 
of  every  response  in  the  midst  of  an  impressive 
silence. 

"  Because  there  is  notherth  fith  frus  btonly 
Thououlord,"  said  the  congregation ;  and  "  for  us, 
but  only  Thou,  O  Lord,"  added  Mr.  Gregson,  that 


50  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

there  might  be  no  misapprehension  in  high  quarters 
as  to  the  exact  nature  of  the  position. 

And  so  the  service  muttered  and  rumbled  its  way 
along,  and  Rupert  grew  more  excited  as  it  drew  to 
an  end  and  the  moment  approached  when  he  should 
see  her  face.  At  last  the  blessing  was  given;  and 
Rupert  grudged  the  few  seconds  that  followed  it  in 
which  he  must  remain  with  bent  head.  He  got  his 
hat  and  fidgeted ;  one  by  one  the  heads  round  him 
bobbed  up,  as  though  some  constraining  bonds  had 
been  cut;  but  still  the  lady  in  front  did  not  move. 
People  were  moving  out  and  beginning  to  throng  the 
little  aisle  before  she  slowly  raised  her  head  and  rose 
gracefully  from  her  knees.  She  collected  her  books, 
handkerchief,  sunshade,  and  moved  out,  coming  down 
the  aisle  towards  Rupert;  but  just  in  front  of  her 
walked  Tom  Neligan,  whose  face,  red  like  the  set- 
ting sun,  blotted  her  out  completely.  As  Rupert 
moved,  the  red  face  moved,  lurching  along  always 
between  him  and  the  fair  features;  and  it  was  not 
until  she  was  on  the  point  of  passing  his  seat  that 
Rupert  saw  her  face.  Even  then  it  was  only  half 
visible  behind  her  veil,  and  he  had  an  impression  of 
pale  grey-blue  eyes,  a  firm  mouth,  the  fairest  of 
skins,  and  an  atmosphere  of  mystery  and  remoteness. 

She  had  gone  away  by  the  time  Rupert  and  his 
aunts  had  reached  the  church  door,  and  he  became 
involved  in  the  usual  Sunday  greetings.  There  were 
the  Gregsons  to  be  shaken  hands  with,  introductions 
to  the  Rathshene  house-party,  the  pretty  Miss  Ham- 


WHEN  THE   TIDE   TURNS  51 

iltons  to  be  fussed  over.  The  carriages  did  not  come 
to  the  church  on  fine  Sundays,  but  waited  down  at 
the  bottom  of  the  street  beside  the  little  harbour,  and 
the  stroll  down  there,  split  into  chosen  groups,  and 
displaying  a  variety  of  splendid  attire,  was  one  of 
the  social  events  of  this  little  world.  Rupert  walked 
with  the  Miss  Hamiltons,  and  for  the  time  forgot 
the  unknown  lady. 

"  I  do  hope  the  weather  will  be  fine  to-morrow ; 
I  am  longing  to  see  Green  Island  again,  and  that 
beautiful  sound,"  said  Millie  Hamilton,  looking  at 
Rupert  out  of  her  fine  dark  eyes.  "  Do  you  think 
it  will  be  fine,  really  now,  Mr.  Savage  ?  " 

"  Sure  to  be,"  said  Rupert,  who  approved  of  these 
young  ladies.  "  Are  you  going  in  the  Dryad  with 
your  uncle  ?  You'd  better  come  with  me  in  the  Maid 
of  Lome,  and  we'll  race  him." 

"  Oh,  what  fun  that  would  be !  "  said  Betty,  the 
younger  sister.  "  Do  let's  go  with  Mr.  Savage, 
Millie,  and  he'll  let  me  steer." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  about  that,  if  we  want  to  get 
there  first,"  said  Rupert  ungallantly.  "  Wait  and 
see.  Anyhow,  you  both  come  with  me  —  I'll  settle 
that  with  your  aunt." 

They  went  on  talking  about  the  next  day's  ex- 
pedition, and  exchanging  laughing  reminiscences  of 
a  similar  day  the  year  before.  At  the  bottom  of  the 
street  they  waited  by  the  quay-side  for  their  elders 
to  come  down,  and  were  joined  by  other  groups  of 
young  people  —  the  Gregson  "  girls,"  who  ranged 
from  eighteen  to  forty,  and  had  all  weather-beaten 


52  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

faces  and  hard  sea-blue  eyes.  They  lived  in  the  open 
air,  in  boats  and  on  bicycles,  but  chiefly  in  boats, 
which  they  managed  with  the  daring  of  yachtsmen 
and  the  cunning  of  old  fishermen.  You  could  see 
the  effect  of  the  weather  on  the  family  in  stages. 
The  youngest  girl  was  very  pretty,  and  merely  freck- 
led; but  the  colour  deepened  as  you  ascended  the 
family  scale.  Aminta,  the  eldest,  was  burned  a  deep 
brick-red,  and  walked  with  a  roll  like  an  old  shell- 
back. On  week-days  she  looked  effective  and  busi- 
ness-like, dressed  in  a  blue  jersey,  short  serge  skirt, 
and  tam-o'-shanter;  but  on  Sunday,  in  a  flimsy  lace 
gown  and  very  feminine  hat,  there  was  an  air  almost 
of  impropriety  about  her.  Her  brick-red  complexion 
looked  like  some  Tibetan  pigment,  and  her  chains 
and  jewelled  pins  were  like  the  adornments  of  an 
idol.  The  father,  old  Gregson,  who  had  twenty-five 
years'  start  of  his  eldest  daughter,  and  added  the 
influence  of  port  to  that  of  the  weather,  was  almost 
black. 

"  How  are  you,  Rupert  ?  "  hailed  Miss  Aminta, 
"  Is  it  true  what  they're  saying,  that  you're  going 
to  step  the  Maid's  mast  further  forrard  ?  Ah,  sure 
it  would  be  a  shame  —  you'll  never  get  her  to  look 
half  a  point  nearer  the  wind  than  she  does  at  present, 
and  you'll  just  take  the  life  out  of  her." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,  Miss  Gregson ;  it  improved 
the  Red  Rose." 

"  The  Red  Rose?  What  is  the  boy  talking  of,  at 
all  ?  Will  you  tell  me  if  the  Red  Rose  is  anything 
like  the  shape  of  the  Maid?  For  patience's  sake  let 


WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS  53 

the  old  boat  alone,  when  she's  the  fastest  thing  of 
her  size  on  the  lough." 

Rupert  continued  to  discuss  the  matter,  the  Miss 
Hamiltons  respectfully  listening;  but  he  inwardly 
resolved  to  consider  Miss  Aminta's  words,  knowing 
that  on  such  a  subject  they  were  of  weight,  and  not 
lightly  given. 

The  other  members  of  her  family  gradually  as- 
sembled, talking  of  the  weather  in  harsh  and  yet 
somehow  agreeable  voices,  until  they  were  all  there 
in  a  row,  beginning  with  Mrs.  Gregson,  whose  face 
was  rose-pink.  Pink,  freckles,  tan,  brown,  crimson, 
brick-red,  black;  and  the  family  spectroscope  was 
complete. 

"  Well,  good  morning,  ladies,"  sang  out  old  Greg- 
son,  who  was  called  the  Commodore ;  "  come  along, 
girls ;  "  and,  as  if  at  the  signal  of  a  flagship,  the 
family,  under  all  plain  sail,  and  with  their  skirts 
held  up  in  front  like  anchors  atrip,  bore  away  in  his 
wake,  Mrs.  Gregson  towing  somewhat  heavily  beside 
the  Commodore. 

And  with  much  talk  and  laughter  and  making  of 
arrangements  for  the  following  day,  the  gay  groups 
gradually  dispersed,  the  carriages  drove  away,  and 
the  little  village  settled  down  to  its  sunny  Sunday 
quiet,  broken  only  by  the  lap  of  waves  against  the 
quay-side,  the  voices  of  the  gulls  plunging  and  quar- 
relling over  some  offal,  and  the  shuffling  feet  of  the 
silent,  stiffly-clad  group  of  Sunday  loiterers  leaning 
against  the  public-house  walL 


IV 

"  Do  tell  me  about  your  drawing ;  I  am  interested 
in  that.  Oh,  how  I  envy  any  one  who  has  a  real 
art  to  express  himself  in !  " 

The  impossible  had  come  true;  Rupert  was  sit- 
ting alone  under  the  shade  of  the  ivy-clad  wall  of 
a  ruin,  with  the  unknown  fair  lady  beside  him  — 
no  longer  unknown,  but  revealed  as  a  clever,  grace- 
ful, well-informed,  friendly,  and  wholly  delightful 
mortal  called  Lady  Fastnet.  And  it  had  happened 
so  easily  and  naturally.  Rupert  had  sailed  up  to 
Green  Island  Sound  with  the  Miss  Hamiltons,  Nora 
Gregson,  and  one  or  two  others  who  had  overflowed 
their  own  boats;  he  had  laughed  and  joked  and 
chatted  and  enjoyed  himself,  and  had  even  begun  a 
laughing,  long-deferred  flirtation  with  Millie  Ham- 
ilton. And  then,  as  they  had  landed,  they  had  met 
the  party  that  had  gone  up  in  the  Moores'  steamer; 
suddenly  he  had  seen  her  in  a  spotless  white  dress, 
standing  chatting  with  Mrs.  Graham  of  Ballyculter, 
had  blushed,  had  been  introduced,  and  had  promptly 
captured  the  lady's  heart  (she  was  feeling  a  little 
bored,  and  rather  hopeless  of  finding  much  human 
interest)  by  the  whole-hearted  admiration  that  had 
beamed  from  his  brown  eyes.  Rupert's  shyness  being 

64 


WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS  55 

of  the  spirit,  and  not  apparent  in  his  manners,  he 
had  quite  unconsciously  set  himself  to  captivate  her, 
with  an  address  and  daring  which  an  older  man 
might  have  envied. 

At  first  his  attentions  had  necessarily  been  divided. 
He  was  too  polite  to  abandon  his  fair  passengers  all 
at  once,  but  he  skilfully  mingled  Lady  Fastnet  with 
them,  so  that  at  lunch  they  made  a  merry  little  group 
by  themselves,  and  he  could  look  at  her  while  he 
talked  to  them.  She  was  witty  and  amusing  and 
youthful  —  she  was  only  twenty-seven  —  so  that  the 
girls  soon  lost  their  stiffness  with  her  and  forgot  that 
she  was  a  married  woman  —  a  state  of  things  that 
meant  in  their  world  an  abandonment  of  youthful 
interests  and  frivolous  joys. 

Geraldine  Fastnet  was  not  sorry  to  find  herself 
once  more  in  an  environment  of  girlhood  and  boy- 
hood. She  had  been  the  eldest  of  a  family  of  ten, 
and  the  cleverest  and  not  the  least  pretty  of  six  pretty 
sisters,  who  had  grown  up  like  flowers  in  the  poor 
soil  of  a  worn-out  family,  and  amid  the  weeds  of  a 
rather  miserable  and  inferior  stock-grazing  county 
society.  An  old  family,  and  a  dying ;  and,  like  many 
in  Ireland,  blossoming  out,  in  its  very  death-throes, 
into  these  flowers  of  daughters;  the  sons  weak  and 
degenerate,  only  hastening  the  extinction  of  the 
name.  Geraldine  had  been  married  at  eighteen  to 
Lord  Fastnet,  a  young,  poor,  proud,  extremely  pious 
and  rather  stupid  hawbuck ;  by  accident,  and  because 
his  relatives  in  the  elder  branch  had  all  subsided  into 
convents  and  lunatic  asylums,  a  Catholic  Peer;  own- 


56  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

ing  many  acres  of  bog,  and  an  ugly,  gloomy  tumble- 
down castle  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

This  young  man  had  been  strictly  brought  up  by 
priests;  he  had  never  been  out  of  Ireland  except 
when  he  had  been  to  school  in  Belgium;  he  was 
advised  to  marry  for  the  apostolic  reasons  —  to  avoid 
incontinence  and  to  beget  children.  Whereupon  this 
gay  and  pretty  Geraldine,  willing  enough  to  be  a 
Countess  and  to  escape  from  the  crowding  competi- 
tion of  home  life,  with  its  rather  irritating  division 
and  apportionment  of  dresses,  dances,  visits,  and 
other  amusements,  and  equipped  with  the  Catholic 
combination  of  innocence  and  shame,  was  thrown  to 
the  lusty  young  Fastnet  as  a  live  rabbit  is  thrown  to 
a  starving  python.  Such  was  her  introduction  to  one 
set  of  the  facts  of  life.  The  church  had  terrified 
her  into  obedience  and  submission,  and  encouraged 
him  with  the  grave  sensuality  of  a  Puritan  Catholi- 
cism: with  a  result  that  any  civilized  society  might 
look  upon  with  shame,  if  it  had  the  courage  to  look 
at  all. 

The  prolonged  horror  of  the  honeymoon  had  come 
to  an  end  at  last.  Geraldine  had  tasted  the  bitter 
degradation  of  having  been  given,  for  the  mere  relief 
of  his  symptoms,  to  a  man  whom  she  did  not  love; 
and  Lord  Fastnet,  his  brief  season  of  song  and  gay 
plumage  over,  returned  to  Castle  Fastnet,  where  he 
relapsed  into  the  quagmire  of  bucolic  Catholicism 
and  the  drifting  sloth  engendered  by  the  soft,  misty 
climate.  Soon  he  neglected  to  shave,  and  became  an 
object  of  physical  repulsion  to  his  wife.  She  bore 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  57 

him  no  child,  to  her  secret  joy,  but  an  express  griev- 
ance of  his ;  and  having,  after  six  years  of  hell,  ar- 
rived at  a  state  of  neutrality  and  found  a  modus 
vivendi,  she  began  to  live,  and  he  began  to  die.  The 
process  was  slow,  beginning  at  the  extremities,  with 
gout  in  the  feet  and  incipient  softening  of  the  brain, 
and  was  destined  to  last  thirty  years  before  the  cen- 
tres of  life  gave  out. 

Geraldine  had  come  on  a  visit  to  her  friend  at 
Ballyculter,  and  was,  of  course,  included  in  the  invi- 
tation for  the  Hamiltons'  picnic.  She  thought  Ru- 
pert much  the  most  attractive  of  the  young  people 
about  her,  and  had  readily  fallen  in  with  his  sugges- 
tion that  they  should  stroll  off  after  lunch  to  where 
they  could  get  a  view  of  the  sound ;  and  thus  it  hap- 
pened that  she  was  sitting  beside  him,  under  the 
ruined  wall,  looking  down  on  the  landlocked  waters 
of  the  sound.  The  Miss  Gregsons  had  led  off  most 
of  the  other  young  people,  to  indulge  in  violent 
games;  the  elders  were  sitting  about  on  the  sward, 
gossiping;  Rupert  and  Lady  Fastnet  had  the  ruin 
to  themselves. 

"  Do  tell  me  about  your  drawing." 

"  I  don't  know  that  there's  anything  to  tell.  I 
can  show  you  some  things,  if  you  like,  but  probably 
you'll  hate  them.  Every  one  says  I  draw  ugly 
things;  certainly  I  don't  see  any  use  in  drawing 
pretty  things,  because  any  one  can  see  their  pretti- 
ness  for  himself.  I'm  afraid  I'm  rather  a  rotter, 
you  know,  because  I  can't  help  sticking  things  in 


58  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

out  of  my  head  —  all  sorts  of  things.  I  see  expres- 
sions in  things :  look  at  that  water  —  it's  smiling, 
as  plainly  as  anything  could  smile  —  like  some  one 
smiling  in  their  sleep  —  you  know  what  I  mean. 
And  that  branch  of  a  tree  —  it's  leering  at  us ;  don't 
you  see  ? "  And  he  whipped  a  pencil  from  his 
pocket,  and  on  the  back  of  an  envelope  drew  the 
gnarled  bough  in  a  few  swift  strokes  that  certainly 
expressed  a  rather  sinister  smile. 

"  It's  rather  rot,  isn't  it  ? "  he  said,  growing  a 
little  red  as  he  felt  that  he  had  been  "  giving  him- 
self away."  "  But  it  makes  it  interesting  for  me ; 
you  know  what  I  mean ;  it's  the  way  I  see  things." 

He  looked  up,  and  found  the  lady's  clear  eyes 
resting,  not  on  the  drawing,  but  on  his  face. 

"  What  are  you  looking  at  me  like  that  for  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  looking  at  you  '  like  that.' ' 

"  Yes,  you  are.  Have  I  said  anything  extra  silly  ? 
I  can't  talk  to  the  people  here  much  about  my  work, 
you  know ;  they  aren't  interested  —  you  know  what 
I  mean;  but  you  seem  to  understand,  although  I 
daresay  you  think  me  rather  an  ass." 

"  Now  you're  fishing,  but  you're  not  going  to 
catch  anything.  Let  me  see  that  drawing  again, 
will  you  ? " 

She  took  it  up  and  looked  at  it  closely,  paying 
absolutely  no  attention  to  Rupert's  confused  and 
rather  abject  depreciation  of  it. 

"  Do  you  know  Sibley's  work  at  all  ?  "  she  asked 
presently. 

"  No,"  said  Rupert.     "  I  know  nothing,  see  noth- 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  59 

ing,  learn  nothing  down  here.  When  you  told  me 
just  now  that  you'd  really  seen  all  those  impression- 
ist pictures  we  were  talking  about,  I  felt  quite  sick. 
I  only  know  them  from  the  illustrated  art  papers 
I  get.  By  Jove,  those  fellows  really  are  trying !  " 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Lady  Fastnet  to  herself,  looking 
at  him. 

"  What  do  you  wonder,  dear  lady  ?  "  said  Rupert, 
blushing,  after  all,  when  he  said  "  dear  lady,"  al- 
though he  had  been  making  up  his  mind  to  say  it 
for  five  minutes. 

"  I  am  wondering,  dear  sir,  if  those  very  people 
wouldn't  say  exactly  that  about  you,  if  they  saw 
your  work.  They  would  say,  '  Anyway,  he  tries.' 
But  I'm  coming  to  see  your  aunts  some  afternoon, 
and  you  must  show  me  your  serious  work.  Will 
you?  That  will  be  so  nice  of  you,  Mr.  Savage." 
She  looked  at  him,  half  smiling,  half  wondering. 

"  I  say,  Lady  Fastnet,  will  you  do  me  a  favour  ?  " 

"  If  I  can." 

"  Do  you  mind  very  much  not  calling  me  Mr. 
Savage  —  do  you  mind  calling  me  Rupert  ?  Every 
one  I  like  does,  and  —  " 

The  lady  suddenly  looked  grave,  even  haughty. 
"  Mr.  Savage !  Really,  I  think  you  are  presuming 
in  our  very  short  acquaintance." 

Rupert,  flushing  scarlet,  looked  down  on  the 
ground,  and  did  not  see  the  expression  of  mock- 
haughtiness  suddenly  disappear  from  Lady  Fastnet's 
face,  to  be  replaced  by  a  shining  friendly  regard. 


60  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

But  when  he  raised  his  eyes  to  reply,  yes  —  no  — 
was  she  laughing  at  him  2  Could  she  really  2  — 

She  rippled  a  merry  laugh,  and  for  a  second  let 
her  fingers  rest  on  his  coat  sleeve.  "  Did  you  really 
think  I  was  such  an  abject  prig  as  that  ?  Of  course 
I'll  call  you  Rupert,  as  long  as  I  like  you  as  much 
as  I  do  now." 

"  That  is  charming  of  you,"  said  Rupert,  his  self- 
possession  quite  restored,  but  still  a  little  intoxicated 
by  the  touch  of  her  fingers.  "  And  you  really  do 
like  me  —  I  mean  —  you  know  what  I  mean." 

"  Yes,  I-know-what-you-mean,"  said  the  lady, 
mimicking  him.  "  If  I  didn't  like  you  I  shouldn't 
be  sitting  here  with  you,  should  I  \  Voila !  " 

"  How  jolly  you  are !  I  am  quite  serious.  You 
didn't  know  about  me  in  church  yesterday,  but  I 
was  looking  at  you." 

"  Fancy !  How  could  I  have  lived  yesterday,  not 
(  knowing  about  you ' !  But  don't  let's  talk  non- 
sense. Do  you  know  I'd  never  been  in  a  Protestant 
church  in  my  life  before  yesterday  ?  Did  I  do  every- 
thing all  right  2  You  wouldn't  have  known  2  Splen- 
did !  You  see  I'm  a  Catholic." 

Rupert  had  a  pleasant  mild  sense  of  traffic  with 
the  devil.  "  No,  I  shouldn't  have  guessed.  But 
why  did  you  come  2 " 

"  Curiosity.  It  would  be  as  much  as  my  life  is 
worth  down  in  the  south;  why,  even  my  people 
would  have  a  fit  if  they  knew !  It's  as  bad  as  that 
with  us." 

They  talked  on,  rushing  into  knowledge  of  each 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  61 

other  on  the  seven-league  strides  of  youth  and  curi- 
osity. While  their  voices  made  the  sounds  and  words 
of  conversation,  their  eyes  talked  more  swiftly, 
glancing  the  dot-and-dash  of  the  emotional  code ; 
for  they  were  full  in  youth's  sunshine,  she  catching 
the  light  from  his  brighter  mirror  and  flashing  it 
back  to  him  in  heliograph.  Now  they  were  a  world 
apart;  a  turn  of  her  head,  and  he  had  reached  the 
equator ;  a  glance  of  eyes,  and  only  a  thousand  miles 
divided  them;  an  idea  shared,  and  he  was  a  hun- 
dred miles  nearer;  a  steadying  and  meeting  of 
glances,  and  the  compass  in  his  heart  dipped  and 
spun  to  the  influence  of  the  magnetic  pole  itself  — 
only  to  find  it  ringed  with  ice,  and  the  lady  near 
by  to  the  sight  only,  and  unapproachable  across  that 
cold  barrier. 

This  ancient  game  doubtless  seemed  the  more 
fascinating  to  the  players  because  of  their  complete 
lack  of  intention.  The  lady,  by  marriage  cut  off, 
as  she  thought,  from  the  mainland  of  youth  and 
adventure,  saw  him  borne  towards  her  on  a  swift 
current,  and  was  glad  of  the  prospect  of  company 
on  her  island.  Because  of  his  youth,  and  the  deep 
and  wide  seas  surrounding  her,  she  prepared  no  de- 
fences; a  mere  boy,  this;  some  one,  surely,  whom 
she  could  frankly  make  her  friend,  without  danger 
from  inquiring  eyebrows  or  from  explosive  qualities 
in  the  friendship  itself.  Her  ladyship  was  as  young 
as  that,  you  see. 

As  for  Rupert,  here  was  a  lady  entirely  lovable, 
and  therefore  to  be  made  love  to.  It  was  all  heart 


62  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

and  soul  and  head  with  him ;  the  flesh  that  impelled 
him  was  as  yet  deep  hidden  from  his  consciousness, 
and  only  sending  these  powerful  vapours  into  heart 
and  soul  and  head;  love  was  an  affair  of  kisses  and 
sweet  words  and  holding  of  hands  and  eternal  spirit- 
ual companionship.  The  lady,  being  married,  could 
not  be  expected  to  love  him;  but  if  only  she  would 
allow  him  to  love  her ! 

At  this  adolescent  stage  the  great  passion  is  a  very 
single  affair.  "  Bother  being  loved !  "  it  cries ;  "  let 
me  love,  let  me  love !  "  The  beautiful  instinct  of 
the  chase  is  awakened,  but  it  is  as  a  means  to  no 
end;  rather  it  is  the  end  itself,  and  capture  only  a 
possible  dilemma  at  the  end  of  it.  "  Let  me  capture 
this  fellow-creature,"  says  Love  in  his  shepherd 
days ;  "  no  doubt  I  shall  find  something  to  do  with 
her  when  I  have  caught  her."  Later,  when  the  cap- 
ture has  become  the  important  thing,  man  gives  up 
the  chase,  contenting  himself  with  setting  a  trap 
in  one  of  the  well-marked  runs  of  the  fair  pursued. 
There  he  waits,  until  the  click  and  cry  are  heard. 
It  is  the  wisest  plan,  perhaps;  for  those  who  chase 
the  flying  nymph  must  beware  of  gins  themselves; 
she  has  been  known  to  leave  them  in  her  tracks. 
Then  indeed,  when  one  of  the  pursuers  is  caught, 
what  a  bellowing  and  dragging  of  mangled  limbs, 
trap  and  all,  out  of  the  forest  shade  into  the  sun- 
light; what  a  gory  trail,  what  panic  legislation  con- 
cerning the  setting  of  traps ! 

Lady  Fastnet's  absolute  innocence  of  any  inten- 
tion of  flirting  with  a  boy  of  twenty,  combined  with 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  63 

her  complete  inability  to  help  being  charmed,  and 
therefore  very  charming,  settled  poor  Rupert's  busi- 
ness for  him  in  the  space  of  an  hour  and  a  half. 
Falling  in  love  herself  was  not  one  of  the  possibili- 
ties that  life  held  for  her,  and  so  she  abandoned  her- 
self the  more  readily  to  this  shy  and  yet  shameless 
wooer,  who  turned  his  whole  personality  upon  her 
in  a  golden  stream.  She  took  for  granted  the  safety 
of  her  own  heart,  immured  within  the  grey  walls 
of  duty,  and  she  regarded  with  a  naive  and  tender 
curiosity  the  offer  of  this  curious  youth,  who  knew 
so  little  what  he  offered.  She  was  not,  because  of 
her  own  immunity,  much  concerned  about  his  heart 
—  the  whole  subject  of  hearts  in  this  connection 
being  one  of  which  she  was  rather  ignorant.  She 
knew  that  there  were  certain  danger  signals  occa- 
sionally shown  by  the  men  among  her  friends,  and 
that  there  was  a  code  of  answering  and  discourag- 
ing signals,  which  instinct  and  training  had  taught 
her :  that  was  all.  It  was  not  within  her  experience 
to  have  a  young  man  of  twenty  pouring  out  before 
her  the  first  treasures  of  a  poet's  heart,  and  bringing 
to  bear  on  her  the  battery  of  a  most  attractive  per- 
sonality, a  keen  intelligence,  and  a  half-fledged 
sense  of  artistic  mastery  that  only  needed  her  help 
to  mount  on  strong  wings.  Least  of  all  was  it  within 
her  experience  to  be  wooed  by  a  creature  who  was 
half  impulsive  boy,  half  self-possessed  and  command- 
ing man,  and  who  had  the  native  art  to  lay  his  life 
at  her  feet  without  saying  a  word  about  it. 

Their  talk  was  indeed  quite  too  commonplace  to 


64  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

reproduce  in  type ;  it  was  the  kind  of  talk  in  which 
words  are  nothing,  tones  and  glances  everything.  In 
their  duet,  that  sounded  through  the  afternoon  to 
the  accompaniment  of  the  talking  water,  his  was  the 
voice  that  sang,  and  hers  the  one  that  interrupted, 
interrogated,  or  made  harmonies.  When  he  spoke 
of  the  brimming  waters  of  the  sound,  he  was  really 
saying,  "  Look  at  them  with  my  eyes ;  look  from 
them  into  me !  "  When  they  talked  of  the  ruined 
castle,  and  the  brave,  loud-shouting  passions  that  had 
echoed  about  its  crumbling  walls,  his  eyes  said, 
"  Learn  about  me ;  know  what  is  in  me  of  those 
ancestors  who  fought  and  fell  here;  they  are  dead, 
the  castle  is  in  ruins,  but  I  am  alive !  "  And  when 
they  spoke  of  his  home,  his  interests,  his  affection 
for  the  old  ladies,  his  drawing,  his  heart  cried, 
"  These  are  things  that  I  love ;  look  at  them,  know 
them,  like  them  a  little  because  I  love  them,  learn 
from  my  love  for  them  what  my  love  for  you  may 
be!" 

•  ••••••  •• 

The  party  were  already  seated  at  tea  when  they 
returned,  raked  by  merciless  young  eyes.  Rupert 
envied  Lady  Fastnet  the  complete  self-possession 
with  which  she  devoted  herself  to  the  elder  ladies. 
They  had  been  inclined  to  criticise  her  absence,  but 
her  attractive  pleasure  in  their  company,  and  whole- 
hearted admiration  for  the  beautiful  sound,  soon 
disarmed  them.  Rupert  was  conscious  of  a  sense  of 
exhilaration  as  he  sat  down  among  the  young  people, 
and  took  his  part  in  the  high-spirited,  good-natured 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  65 

chaff  of  such  occasions.  He  felt  kindly  towards 
every  one,  and  treated  Miss  Hamilton  with  an  almost 
paternal  affection  which  that  young  lady  found  most 
attractive.  He  did  not  let  his  eyes  wander  towards 
the  group  of  elders  very  often;  the  radiance  that 
was  illuminating  them  reached  him  through  other 
senses  than  that  of  sight.  Once  indeed,  when  he 
had  looked,  he  had  been  conscious  of  a  faint  feeling 
of  disgust  at  the  sight  of  her  in  laughing  conversa- 
tion with  a  middle-aged  facetious  gentleman  in  red 
Dundreary  whiskers;  after  that  he  looked  no  more. 
They  played  games  after  tea  —  old-fashioned 
games,  which  were  understood  by  the  elders  to  be 
a  concession  to  the  young  people,  and  by  the  young 
people  to  be  a  concession  to  the  elders.  The  grey 
walls  of  the  castle  echoed  to  laughter  and  voices, 
and  the  figures  of  girls  skimmed  over  the  sward, 
like  flying  nymphs  whom  no  satyr  pursued.  Lady 
Fastnet  did  not  join  in  these  revels,  but  looked  on 
with  the  elders;  and  in  the  evolutions  of  the  game 
often  had  sight  of  the  slim,  clean  Rupert,  pursued 
or  pursuing.  But  it  was  not  until  the  slanting  sun- 
beams had  given  the  signal  for  baskets  to  be  packed 
and  boats  to  be  manned,  and  each  craft  had  received 
her  complement  of  passengers  that  the  new-formed 
friends  had  any  speech  with  each  other.  Rupert, 
with  a  coolness  that  won  the  frank  admiration  of 
his  party,  mano3uvred  Lady  Fastnet  into  his  own 
cutter  for  the  homeward  sail,  and  established  her 
with  cushions  and  rugs  beside  him  where  he  sat  at 
the  tiller. 


66  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

Once  on  board  he  was  more  autocratic  than  ever. 
"  Move  over  here  a  little,  please,  and  then  you'll  be 
clear  of  the  main-sheet.  The  other  side,  please,  Miss 
Hamilton  —  that's  right.  Just  take  a  turn  of  those 
halliards,  Miss  Gregson,  and  haul  aft  your  weather 
jib-sheet.  All  clear,  Sam  ?  " 

"  All  clear,  sir !  "  sang  out  the  man  in  the  bows, 
who  was  stripping  the  long  seaweeds  from  the  an- 
chor; and  they  glided  through  the  sound  with  a 
dying  breeze  and  in  the  orange  glow  of  sunset. 

There  were  two  or  three  short  tacks  to  be  made 
in  order  to  get  out  of  the  sound,  and  an  intricate 
navigation  of  the  narrow  entrance,  in  which  Rupert 
distinguished  himself  by  getting  ahead  of  the  other 
boats  and  establishing  a  lead  for  the  race  home. 
Close  behind  him  was  Mr.  Hamilton's  cutter,  carry- 
ing more  sail,  but  laden  more  heavily  than  the  Maid 
of  Lome;  and  for  a  few  minutes  the  excitement  of 
a  race  occupied  them  all.  But  as  the  Maid  of  Lorne 
drew  away  from  her  pursuer  and  settled  down  on 
the  long  reach  home,  general  conversation  broke 
out  again,  and  the  indefatigable  group  over  the 
cabin-hatch  began  to  practise  making  knots  and 
splices,  with  much  argument  and  manual  interfer- 
ence. 

Rupert  had  a  sense  of  triumph,  god-like  and  ex- 
hilarating, in  the  presence  of  his  lady  beside  him 
in  the  little  cock-pit.  The  talk  of  the  others  mingled 
with  the  bubble  of  water  against  the  planks  veiled 
their  voices,  and  the  growing  darkness  veiled  their 
faces. 


WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS  67 

"  Do  you  like  it  ? "  asked  Rupert,  after  a  long 
silence. 

«  Yes,  I  like  it." 

"  Are  you  happy  ?  " 

"  I  wonder.  Yes."  Geraldine  felt  herself  be- 
witched, drifting  on  some  tide,  half  ashamed  of  her- 
self for  seeming  to  encourage  the  admiration  that 
trembled  in  this  boy's  tones,  half  conscious  of  feel- 
ing very  like  a  girl  beside  him,  and  then  stifling 
her  conscience  with  the  thought  that  she  could  be 
of  use  to  him,  that  she  would  be  good  for  him. 

Presently,  under  cover  of  the  friendly  twilight, 
Rupert  spoke  again. 

"  Do  you  mind  very  much  if  I  ask  you  some- 
thing?" 

"  Not  a  bit.    What  is  it  ?  " 

"  That."  She  felt  a  hand  laid  on  her  own  as  it 
rested  on  the  deck. 

"  Oh,  Rupert,"  she  said  pleadingly,  "  please  don't 
spoil  it  by  anything  silly !  You  know  very  well  that 
is  only  foolishness  — "  but  she  did  not  move  her 
hand  from  under  his.  Rupert's  hand  was  warm  and 
trembling  over  her  cold  one;  but  his  voice  was 
steady,  reassuring,  matter-of-fact. 

"  Now,  that's  very  selfish  of  you,"  he  said ;  "  does 
it  make  you  very  uncomfortable  to  have  your  hand 
in  mine  ? " 

"  No,  of  course  not ;   but  what  good  does  it  do  ?  " 

"  It  makes  me  very  happy ;  so  you  haven't  a  ghost 
of  an  excuse.  Please  — "  as  the  cold  hand  made 
a  movement  of  withdrawal,  and  then  resigned  itself. 


68  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

She  laughed  quietly.  "  You  are  very  obstinate, 
and  I'm  still  not  sure  that  you  aren't  silly  as  well; 
but  we  won't  make  a  fuss  about  such  a  small  thing. 
There  now." 

She  gave  him  her  hand  frankly  into  his  own  with 
a  movement  that  robbed  the  situation  of  any  sub- 
tlety; it  was  gently  and  timidly  caressed  as  though 
it  were  a  treasure  of  porcelain.  It  was  as  cold  and 
unresponsive  as  porcelain  too,  but  Rupert  was  un- 
conscious of  that.  He  was  conscious  only  of  himself 
and  of  her,  that  they  were  together,  that  he  was 
touching  her.  For  ten  minutes  he  desired  no  other 
happiness. 

Then  the  wish  to  be  answered  woke  in  him. 

"  How  cold  your  hand  is !  Can't  I  make  it  as 
happy  as  mine  ? " 

"  I'm  afraid  I  don't  feel  happiness  in  my  hands 
—  except  when  I'm  playing  the  piano.  They  are 
always  cold." 

"  Are  you  glad  your  hand  is  in  mine  ?  " 

"  Not  particularly.  I  can't  pretend  to  be  thrilled, 
you  know,  when  I'm  not.  How  lovely  those  clouds 
are,  with  the  moonlight  coming  behind  them." 

"  Yes,  but  look  here,  you  know  what  I  mean,  I'm 
so  awfully  —  " 

"  Keep  your  luff,  sir,  keep  your  luff !  "  came  in  a 
hoarse  voice  from  the  gloom  in  the  bows.     "  Sure, 
Mr.  Hamilton's  walking  away  from  us  now,  sir  — 
that's  him  to  windward.    I  think  we're  close  enough 
to  Black  Rock,  your  honour." 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  69 

Rupert  withdrew  his  hand,  and  guiltily  brought 
the  boat  up  to  the  wind. 

"  What  in  the  world  are  you  doing,  Rupert,  to  let 
him  get  past  ? "  asked  Miss  Gregson  indignantly. 
"  I  declare  to  goodness  they'll  be  laughing  at  us  all 
night.  Did  he  fall  asleep,  Lady  Fastnet  ?  " 

"  I  think  he  was  very  near  it,"  she  said.  "  Little 
boys  ought  not  to  be  kept  out  so  late;  he  ought  to 
have  been  tucked  up  an  hour  ago." 

"  Damn !  "  said  Rupert  pettishly,  and  very  like  a 
little  boy.  "We'll  beat  him  yet."  And  he  set  his 
teeth,  looked  up  at  the  luff  of  the  sail,  and  glanced 
into  the  darkness. 

"  We're  close  enough,  sir,"  repeated  the  man. 

"  Plenty  of  water  yet,"  answered  Rupert. 
"  We've  got  a  breeze  here,  and  if  we  hang  on  on 
this  tack  we  can  get  to  windward  of  him  when  he 
goes  about." 

"  Mercy,  Rupert,  don't  go  in  any  closer,"  said 
Miss  Gregson ;  "  it's  all  right  by  daylight,  but  the 
tide'll  put  you  on  to  the  outer  shoal  before  you  can 
see." 

"  Look  here,  Miss  Gregson,  we're  going  to  beat 
him.  You've  got  the  best  eyes;  will  you  go  for- 
ward and  sing  out  when  you  see  the  broken  water? 
Not  a  second  before  —  honour  bright  ?  " 

"  All  right,"  said  the  lady,  entering  into  the  dare- 
devil spirit  at  once ;  "  but  be  ready  when  I  shout." 

The  yacht  skimmed  on  with  the  freshening  breeze, 
every  eye  on  board  peering  ahead  into  the  darkness. 

"  Lee  ho !  "  sang  out  Miss  Gregson  sharply ;    and 


70  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

the  Maid  of  Lorne  shot  up  into  the  wind  and  went 
about  on  the  other  tack,  showing  them  for  an  instant 
a  glimmer  of  foam  on  the  shore  a  stone's  cast  away. 

"  Near  enough,"  muttered  the  man ;  but  the  yacht 
now  drew  ahead  of  her  rival,  and  crossed  her  bows, 
and  had  dropped  her  anchor  off  the  boatslip  at  Rath- 
shene  before  the  Hamiltons  appeared. 

"  How  could  you  be  so  rash  ? "  asked  Lady  Fast- 
net,  who  had  been  talking  to  some  of  the  others,  and 
came  to  bid  Rupert  good-night  before  she  was  driven 
away. 

"  It  was  your  fault,"  he  said,  as  he  took  her  hand. 
"  Good-night."  And  then,  "  You'll  come  on  Tues- 
day?" 

"  Yes,  I  will  if  I  can/'  she  answered.  "  But  you 
know  very  well  whose  fault  it  was." 


SHE  came  on  a  day  of  south-west  showers,  late  in 
the  afternoon,  when  Rupert  had  almost  given  her 
up.  He  had  thought  about  her  so  much  in  the  in- 
terval, and  so  excitedly,  that  the  reality  of  her  pres- 
ence was  cooling  and  quieting,  and  made  him  feel 
that  their  former  friendly  intercourse  was  a  dream. 
She  had  met  the  old  ladies  before,  and  was  delighted 
to  come  and  pay  her  court  to  them;  but  Rupert 
found  the  time  of  general  conversation  long  and 
trying. 

At  last  she  said,  turning  to  him,  "  I  hope  you  will 
keep  your  promise,  and  show  me  your  work  before 
I  go  —  will  you  ?  It  would  be  so  kind." 

"  Oh,  if  you  are  interested,  I  shall  be  delighted," 
said  Rupert  artificially ;  "  if  you  don't  mind  coming 
to  my  den  you  can  see  the  whole  collection." 

"  And  I  hope  you'll  give  him  some  good  advice, 
Lady  Fastnet,"  called  Miss  Leonora  as  they  went  out 
at  the  door ;  "  perhaps  he'll  listen  to  you  when  he 
won't  to  us." 

"  You  promise  you  won't  laugh  at  me,  but  tell  me 
what  you  really  think  ?  " 

"  I  promise,"  said  the  lady  simply ;  and  they 
71 


72  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

went  down  the  garden  towards  the  water-side, 
through  a  shrubbery,  and  came  out  on  a  row  of  old 
buildings  that  had  been  used  as  stores  and  lofts  long 
ago,  and  were  now  in  a  state  of  ruinous  decay. 

"  Mind  where  you  step ;  those  boards  are  rotten," 
said  Rupert  as  they  went  under  the  archway  into 
a  dim  green  twilight.  He  took  a  key  from  his 
pocket,  opened  a  door  on  the  left,  and  Lady  Fastnet 
drew  a  sudden  breath  of  surprised  pleasure. 

She  saw  a  vast  room  with  a  long  window  on  one 
side,  below  which  the  still  green  water  rippled 
against  the  timbered  wall.  One  end  was  devoted 
to  boat-gear  of  all  kinds,  and  was  like  a  marine  store. 
There  were  coils  of  ropes,  tins  of  paint  and  varnish, 
spars,  cases  of  brass-work,  anchors,  cushions,  oars, 
rowlocks,  chains,  signal  flags  in  lettered  pigeon-holes, 
a  big  model  schooner-yacht  with  mildewed  sails,  a 
compass,  leads  and  lines,  fishing-tackle,  grapnels  and 
a  hundred  other  things  that  go  to  the  equipment  of 
well-found  boats.  The  other  end  was  furnished  like 
a  studio,  with  easels,  bookcase,  a  high  drawing-desk, 
an  old  chair  or  two,  chests  of  drawers,  and  a  litter 
of  paper,  portfolios,  and  canvases.  In  a  far  corner 
stood  an  old  harpsichord,  and  over  all  hung  a  min- 
gled aroma  of  tar,  hemp,  paint,  and  sea-weed. 

"  What  a  wonderful  place !  "  She  stood  and  let 
her  eyes  take  in  all  the  satisfying  details.  She 
looked  from  one  end  to  the  other,  and  then  at  Ru- 
pert. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  can  really  work  here  ?  " 
she  asked.  "  Aren't  you  continually  wanting  to 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  73 

splice  a  rope  when  you  are  drawing,  or  draw  when 
you  are  working  with  those  chains  and  things  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  If  I  want  to  draw,  I  draw,  and 
if  I  want  to  fiddle  about  with  boat-gear,  I  do  that." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  Bad,  very  bad.  Now  let 
me  see." 

He  opened  two  or  three  portfolios,  and  spread  out 
the  contents,  watching  her  eagerly  as  she  turned  over 
the  drawings.  He  learned  nothing  from  her  calm 
face  except  that  she  was  interested.  "  You  see,  I 
told  you  they  were  no  good.  No  one  but  me  knows 
what  they're  even  meant  to  be.  Don't  look  at  those 
silly  things  —  even  I  can  see  that  they're  all  out  of 
drawing.  Here,  let  me  —  " 

"  Oh,  do  be  quiet,"  she  said,  gently  putting  her 
hand  on  his  wrist  and  pushing  it  away.  "  You  don't 
expect  me  to  chatter  about  them,  do  you  ?  "  And 
he  turned  away,  contented. 

They  were  strange  compositions,  some  of  them 
glaringly  bizarre  and  far-fetched;  others,  the  best, 
remarkable  for  a  kind  of  pregnant  simplicity  of 
line,  and  a  wayward  but  entirely  conscious  concen- 
tration of  detail.  Many  of  them  had  the  fault  of 
literary  rather  than  pictorial  purpose ;  drawing  was 
subordinated  to  criticism,  or  narrative,  or  in  some 
cases  to  a  curious,  half-cynical  commentary  on  their 
subjects.  One,  called  "  The  Gates  of  Heaven," 
showed  an  imposing  and  formidable  barrier  of  gates 
amid  mountains  and  clouds ;  the  gates  were  wrought 
and  chased  with  endless  scrolls  and  devices  on  their 


74  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

massive  bars  and  hinges,  and  there  was  a  sugges- 
tion of  immense  difficulty  and  complication  in  the 
machinery  for  opening  them;  but  the  decorative 
design  had  included  several  interstices  near  the  bot- 
tom, and  through  these  a  stream  of  minute  human 
figures  was  flowing  quietly  in.  Another,  called 
"  The  Last  Man  in  the  World,"  showed  a  segment 
of  the  earth's  circle  in  space,  dead,  ice-bound,  with 
a  star  setting  beyond  it ;  silhouetted  against  the  im- 
mense circle,  a  lonely  human  figure,  no  bigger  than 
a  fly;  and  extending  from  him  to  the  foreground, 
over  a  distance  that  the  cleverly-handled,  exagger- 
ated perspective  suggested  to  be  thousands  of  miles, 
a  line  of  wolves,  pin-points  in  the  distance,  winding 
among  rocks  and  hummocks  and  ice-mountains, 
growing  bigger  as  the  magnifying  vision  of  the  spec- 
tator traced  the  winding  procession  across  frozen 
continents  —  all  doggedly  following  the  man's  trail 
with  the  precision  and  inevitableness  of  nightmare. 
The  same  trick  of  immense  space  condensed  within 
a  few  lines,  like  a  world  seen  through  a  magnifying 
and  condensing  lens,  was  used  in  "  The  North  Pole  " 
—  a  powerful  realization  of  aching  desolation ;  but 
in  all  of  these  there  was  a  suggestion  of  the  gro- 
tesque, revealing  either  a  mockery  or  a  wittiness  that 
equally  vitiated  and  contradicted  the  spirit  of  the 
drawing. 

Lady  Fastnet  said  very  little ;  she  shuddered  over 
"The  Last  Man"  and  smiled  at  "The  Gates  of 
Heaven,"  Rupert  nervously  anticipating  shudders 
and  smiles,  and  explaining  them  away.  He  was  a 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  75 

little  disappointed  with  his  friend;  she  seemed  to 
be  interested  enough  in  his  drawings,  but  almost 
impatient  of  him,  and  quite  neglectful  of  his  com- 
ments and  explanations. 

"  What  in  the  world  —  ?  "  she  had  turned  to  a 
group  of  sketches  made  on  Gunn's  Island ;  over  and 
over  again  the  same  thing  begun  and  left  unfinished 
apparently  on  the  eve  of  realization  —  the  swim- 
ming, sliding  water,  the  vicious,  mysterious  lines  of 
the  current,  the  space  of  blank  white  paper  that 
seemed  to  be  actually  rising  and  swelling  above  the 
confining  line. 

"  There,  you've  found  those  things.  I  can't  help 
it  —  I  can't  leave  off  drawing  that  bit  of  water, 
though  I  suppose  it's  quite  mad  of  me  to  try  for 
it  in  black  and  white.  But  I  see  it  in  lines  and 
shapes  that  have  expression  —  faces  —  you  know 
what  I  mean.  .  .  ." 

"  Indeed,  I  don't  think  I  do  know  what  you 
mean."  She  turned  towards  him.  "  I  wonder  if 
you  know  yourself?  Have  you  any  idea  how  good 
some  of  this  work  is  —  and  how  bad  ?  " 

"  !N"o,  neither,"  he  answered  stoutly,  although 
flushing  with  pleasure.  "  I  don't  know  that  it's  so 
very  good  —  or  so  frightfully  bad  either.  But  per- 
haps you'll  like  this." 

He  uncovered  a  big  sheet  of  cardboard,  displaying 
a  drawing  quite  different  from  anything  he  had  yet 
showed  her.  It  was  called  "  The  King's  Daughter  " 
—  a  richly-dressed  woman,  a  huge  ape  feasting  from 
elaborate  dishes,  a  leering  evil  face  peering  through 


76  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

the  curtains  of  the  tent.  The  subject  was  so  sur- 
prising and  inexplicable  that  she  did  not  at  once 
examine  the  drawing.  "  What  King's  daughter  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  Don't  you  know  ?  in  the  '  Arabian  Nights,'  "  he 
answered.  "  I  thought  it  was  such  a  wonderful 
scene  to  draw.  Here  —  I'll  find  it  for  you,"  and 
he  turned  to  his  shelves  and  took  down  a  leather 
volume  and  opened  it.  "  Head  it  —  it  won't  take 
you  a  minute." 

She  turned  to  the  window  with  the  book,  but  she 
had  only  read  a  few  sentences  when  he  heard  an 
exclamation,  "  My  dear  Rupert,  what  an  odd 
story !  "  But  she  went  on  reading,  and  then  he  re- 
membered, and  wished  that  the  floor  would  open  and 
swallow  him  up.  Evil  was  never  objective  with 
him ;  he  had  given  her  the  book  in  perfect  innocence, 
and  with  the  calm,  unconscious  interest  of  the  artist 
in  his  subject ;  but  suddenly  he  saw  her  as  a  woman, 
reading  Sir  Richard  Burton's  very  straightforward 
rendering  of  that  terrible  and  immortal  Persian 
anecdote;  and  flames  chased  over  his  body.  Would 
she  never  put  it  down?  He  watched  her  turning 
the  page,  her  face  absolutely  expressionless,  the  lines 
of  her  mouth  set  a  little  harder  than  usual.  Not 
until  she  came  to  the  end,  and  had  read  of  the  com- 
ing of  the  Destroyer  of  delights  and  the  Sunderer 
of  societies,  and  the  ascription  of  praise  to  Allah 
the  all-knowing,  the  Author  of  all  things  visible  and 
invisible,  did  she  put  down  the  book  and  turn  to 
the  drawing  with  a  colder  and  more  critical  counte- 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  77 

nance.  She  noticed  Rupert's  confusion,  and  was 
very  quick  to  make  any  apology  impossible  for  him, 
beginning  at  once  to  talk  about  the  drawing  in  calm 
business-like  tones  that  gradually  smoothed  away 
his  sense  of  agonized  embarrassment. 

There  was  the  princess,  clothed  in  fabrics  of  the 
most  exquisite,  elaborate  pattern,  handling  dishes  of 
brass  and  gold,  and  chased  flagons  and  platters; 
there  was  the  ape,  terrifying  and  elemental ;  but  the 
power  of  the  thing,  and  its  true  horror,  was  in  the 
face  of  the  butcher  peeping  in  behind  the  curtain, 
half  terrified,  half  leeringly  excited;  and  in  the 
suggestion  of  the  desert  through  the  opening  in  the 
curtain  —  that  edge  of  the  salt  desert  to  which  this 
desolate  passion  had  banished  itself. 

"  Yes  —  I  see.  That  pattern  on  the  cloak  is  won- 
derful; but  —  what  horrible  things  you  imagine! 
What  faces !  Where  in  the  world  do  you  find  your 
models  ? " 

"  I  imagine  them,"  said  Rupert.  "  The  faces  of 
real  people  are  so  uninteresting  —  there's  nothing  to 
draw  in  them  —  I  mean  most  faces,"  he  added 
boldly.  "  You  see,  I  don't  care  for  faces,  and  I  do 
care  for  drawing.  Hence  the  ape." 

"  I  begin  to  see,"  she  said,  sitting  down  opposite 
"The  King's  Daughter."  They  had  for  the  time 
been  less  conscious  of  each  other  as  they  had  become 
absorbed  in  the  work;  in  fact,  the  surprise  she  felt 
at  its  excellence  and  originality,  the  power  and  ma- 
turity in  it,  made  Rupert  himself  seem  at  once  a 
little  more  distant  from  her,  and  a  little  more  im- 


78  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

portant.  It  was  impossible  for  her  to  identify  the 
healthy,  happy,  ingratiating  owner  of  the  M aid  of 
Lorne  with  the  inventor  of  these  masterly,  bizarre, 
and  sometimes  morbid  creations.  Yet  there  he  was, 
smiling  before  her,  his  equanimity  quite  restored. 

"  Yes,  do  smoke,  and  sit  down  for  a  minute  and 
talk  to  me,  you  strange  boy.  Of  course  you  know 
you  have  immense  talent  —  genius  perhaps ;  no  one 
has  it  without  knowing  it.  What  are  you  going  to 
do  with  it?  Are  you  going  to  live  here  all  your 
life?" 

"  Heavens,  no !  At  least  —  well,  my  aunts  are 
always  talking,  you  know;  they  put  things  off 
rather ;  we  are  all  a  bit  behind  the  times  down  here 
—  you  know  what  I  mean." 

"  Yes,  I  do  know,  and  it  rather  shocks  me.  Never 
mind  your  aunts  for  the  moment ;  what  about  you  ? 
Are  you  going  to  leave  your  life  altogether  in  their 
hands  ? "  Her  sky-grey  eyes  grew  brighter  as  she 
leaned  forward,  eagerly  speaking.  "  What  are  you 
going  to  do  with  all  this  ?  Do  you  believe,  as  I  do, 
that  any  power  or  ability  you  have  is  a  thing  in- 
trusted to  you,  to  be  cultivated  and  improved?  I 
love  pictures  and  beautiful  things,  and  I  know 
enough  about  painting  and  drawing  to  see  that  you 
are  infinitely  clever,  but  I  want  to  know  more  than 
that.  Oh,  Kupert,  surely  it's  just  as  easy  to  draw 
beautiful  things  and  good  things,  or  to  see  what's 
good  and  fine  in  everything,  as  it  is  to  make  these 
terrible  inventions,  and  to  discover  hidden,  ugly 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  79 

sides  of  things  ?  That  picture  is  wonderful ;  but 
why  draw  it?  why  choose  to  decorate  such  a  horri- 
ble and  diseased  idea?  Perhaps  you  think  it  very 
impertinent  of  me  to  talk  like  this  when  I  know  you 
so  little,  but  then  —  " 

"  We  are  friends ;  you  can  say  anything  you  like 
to  me,  and  I  shall  only  be  too  grateful.  I've  no  one 
to  take  any  interest  in  my  work,  and  no  one  to  please 
except  myself.  ISTow  I've  got  you,  perhaps  it  will  be 
different.  I  don't  know,"  he  added  doubtfully. 

"Why?" 

"  Because  —  well,  you  see,  all  you  say  about  good 
things  and  beautiful  things  seems  all  right  to  me 
now  I'm  only  talking  about  it ;  but  if  I  had  a  pencil 
in  my  hand,  it  would  all  go  out  of  my  head,  and 

—  I  hope  you  don't  mind  —  you  know  what  I  mean 

—  it  would  seem  unimportant.     I  quite  agree  with 
you  that  in  one  way  that  may  be  a  beastly  picture 

—  I  suppose  it's  a  beastly  story  —  I  never  looked 
at  it  that  way,"  he  added  simply.    "  It  interested  me 
to  draw  it.    I'll  tear  it  up  if  you  like." 

"  I  would  never  forgive  you  if  you  did.  I  sup- 
pose you  can  only  draw  the  things  that  interest  you 

—  but  I  wish  that  you  were  content  to  see  the  beauty 
in    ordinary   things.      Perhaps    that   will    come  — 
you're  only  a  boy  yet,  you  know."    And  she  looked, 
laughing,  into  his  eyes. 

"  I  am  quite  aware  that  one  is  still  in  one's  cradle 
at  twenty-one,"  said  Rupert  in  a  very  elderly  man- 
ner ;  "  in  that  case  one  needs  a  nurse.  Will  you  be 
my  nurse  ? " 


80  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

"  I'm  afraid  I  could  never  manage  you  —  you 
would  soon  grow  out  of  my  control.  .  .  .  But  we 
must  go  back  to  your  aunts.  I  want  you  to  promise 
me  something." 

"  Anything  you  like,  dear  nurse." 

"  No,  seriously."  It  was  she  who  felt  shy  and 
embarrassed  now,  and  Rupert  who  seemed  self-pos- 
sessed and  assured,  and  years  older  than  she,  because 
he  was  on  his  own  ground.  "  Promise  you'll  think 
over  what  I  said  about  doing  something  seriously 
—  will  you  ? "  They  were  both  standing  up,  and 
she  put  her  hand  in  his,  with  a  pretty  gesture  of 
appeal  and  confidence. 

"  I  promise,"  said  Rupert,  enclosing  it  in  both 
his,  and  giving  it  a  little  shake  and  pressure.  Her 
attitude  was  girlish  and  timid,  and  his,  re-assuring 
and  almost  paternal ;  but  she  was  cold  and  unmoved, 
while  he  thrilled  and  was  disturbed. 

Then  they  went  back  to  the  house. 


VI 

WHILE  Lady  Fastnet's  visit  lasted,  she  and  Ru- 
pert were  often  together.  They  met  at  the  various 
social  gatherings  that  enlivened  the  Rathshene  sum- 
mer, and  often  she  was  with  him,  or  with  Miss  Greg- 
son,  when  these  two  nautical  rivals  had  sailing 
matches;  and  he  taught  her  to  steer  and  handle  a 
boat,  and  in  other  ways  established  the  superiority 
necessary  to  counterbalance  his  inferiority  in  years 
and  experience.  His  devotion  to  her  was  so  roman- 
tic, so  boyish  and  delicate  in  its  expression,  that  she 
had  no  opportunity  to  discourage  it,  even  if  she  had 
wanted  to;  the  mother  and  the  girl  in  her  both  re- 
sponded to  him  whole-heartedly,  and  only  the  mar- 
ried woman,  to  whom  he  laid  no  siege,  held  aloof 
and  was  secretly  a  little  ashamed  at  the  bare  thought 
that  she  might  be  accused  of  "  carrying  on  "  with 
Rupert.  They  talked  about  themselves  and  each 
other,  and  everything  under  the  sun,  and  Rupert  felt 
more  and  more  conscious  of  some  strength  and  grow- 
ing purpose  in  himself,  which  as  yet  he  did  not 
trouble  to  analyze  or  discover.  There  was  a  spark- 
ling coolness  in  the  animation  of  Lady  Fastnet 
that  baffled  and  discouraged  the  occasional  restless 

81 


82  WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS 

stirrings  and  strainings  at  the  leash  of  the  pack  of 
young  hounds  within  him;  when  he  was  in  her 
presence  they  never  troubled  him. 

Only  when  she  was  absent,  his  imagination  would 
sometimes  approach  the  verge  of  something  vague 
and  wonderful,  a  mystery  of  the  senses  that  he 
longed  and  yet  feared  to  penetrate;  and  at  such 
times  he  would  design  a  more  intimate  approach 
to  her,  would  deliberately  plan  to  make  love  to  her 
—  only  to  feel  when  he  was  with  her  again  that  some 
invisible  barrier  mercifully  prevented  him,  and  that 
in  disobedience  to  the  carnal  prompter  there  lay 
peace  and  not  punishment. 

So  the  summer  came  to  an  end,  and  with  it  her 
long  visit.  She  was  unhappy,  and  Rupert  miserable 
at  the  prospect  of  parting;  and  the  old  ladies,  with 
an  unconscious  sympathy  which  old  virginity  often 
shows  for  young  love,  left  them  almost  to  themselves 
on  her  last  afternoon  at  the  Abbacy. 

"  You  will  do  great  things,  I  know,"  she  had  said, 
"  and  you  must  sometimes  let  me  share  in  the  pride 
and  pleasure  of  them."  And  he  had  protested,  al- 
most with  tears,  that  there  was  no  one  else  to  whom 
he  would  ever  owe  anything,  or  with  whom  he  could 
feel  any  sense  of  partnership ;  that  she  was  his  star 
and  his  sun,  and  his  dearest  and  most  beautiful 
friend;  and  as  they  stood  there  leaning  against  the 
harbour  wall  in  the  shadow  of  a  cypress,  he  sum- 
moned up  courage  to  put  his  arms  about  her  and 
to  ask  her,  in  trembling  tones,  for  a  kiss.  "  The 
first  and  the  last,"  he  said  —  not  knowing  that  a 


WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS  83 

woman's  first  kiss,  unless  it  be  a  mere  charity  or 
kindness,  need  never  be  the  last. 

"  No,  no,  no,"  she  said  softly,  almost  whispering, 
"  don't  let  us  spoil  it  now ;  be  good,  dear  Rupert, 
as  you  always  have  been  good  to  me."  Very  gently 
she  disengaged  his  hand  from  her  waist,  but  held 
it  still  in  her  own.  He  pleaded  with  eyes  and  voice ; 
she  answered  a  little  more  firmly,  but  still  gently, 
"  Don't  you  see  that  I  haven't  got  it  to  give  —  that 
it  would  be  wrong  ?  " 

Rupert  made  an  impatient  exclamation,  hating 
to  see  himself  conquered  or  forbidden  in  anything. 
"  And  yet  you  hold  my  hand,  and  give  me  yours !  " 

"  My  hands  are  my  own,"  she  said ;  and  he  took 
her  cool  slender  hand  in  his,  and  kissed  it,  and  held 
it  for  awhile  against  his  hot  cheek;  and  so  they  said 
good-bye. 

And  when  she  had  gone,  the  whole  world  went 
grey  and  blank  to  Rupert  for  a  time.  There  was 
her  first  letter  to  look  forward  to,  but  after  that 
there  was  nothing  but  a  level  of  monotony  in  pros- 
pect ;  and  even  the  letter  was  a  secret  disappointment 
to  him,  so  inadequately  did  it  echo  the  fervour  of 
his  own  outpourings.  It  was  more  like  her  mouth 
than  her  eyes  —  a  little  firm  and  repressed ;  and  the 
eyes  were  not  visible  for  him  to  appeal  to  against 
the  severe  judgments  of  the  mouth.  So  he  was  mis- 
erable, and  moped  about  by  himself  for  a  time,  ab- 
senting himself  from  Rathshene  and  society,  haunt- 
ing Gunn's  Island  with  a  sketch-book  that  he  hardly 


84  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

ever  opened,  and  otherwise  lamentably  advertising 
his  condition  to  such  as  had  eyes  to  see.  But  in 
such  a  mood  he  was  melancholy,  gloomy,  and  unap- 
proachable, and  there  was  no  one  to  chaff  him  or 
receive  his  confidences;  even  his  Aunt  Jane  was 
frightened  of  him,  although  the  old  ladies  had  per- 
suaded themselves  that  his  condition  was  due  to  his 
frequenting  the  damp  studio  too  much,  and  encour- 
aged him  in  idleness. 

And  yet  all  the  time  as  he  wandered  about,  some- 
times sailing  far  up  the  lough  to  where  the  lonely 
waters  grew  wide  and  shallow,  and  the  monument 
on  the  inland  hill  showed  clear  and  slender  like  a 
finger  against  the  sky,  sometimes  crossing  the  bar 
and  lazily  fishing  for  mackerel  up  and  down  the 
broken  waters  of  the  channel,  he  was  conscious 
within  himself  of  a  coming  change,  of  a  future 
hiding  near  at  hand  that  would  suddenly  make 
meaning  of  his  life,  and  give  rein  to  the  power  he 
felt  sleeping  within  him. 

He  was  first  made  aware  of  this  on  a  day  —  al- 
most the  last  of  the  blended  summer  and  autumn 
that  are  so  beautiful  in  Ireland  —  which  he  had 
devoted  to  sailing  up  the  narrow,  winding  river  that 
flows  into  the  lough  from  the  little  cathedral  town 
of  Ardryan,  some  twelve  miles  away.  There  were 
only  a  few  days  in  each  month  on  which  the  journey 
was  possible ;  the  river  was  so  narrow,  and  so  twisted 
upon  itself,  that  no  wind  was  a  fair  one,  and  it  was 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  85 

necessary  to  sail  up  with  the  flood-tide  and  down 
with  the  ebb. 

On  this  day  the  tide  and  weather  were  alike  fa- 
vourable, and  with  a  light  breeze  Rupert  sailed  into 
the  entrance  hidden  behind  an  island,  and  looking 
like  one  of  the  hundred  land-locked  bays  of  the 
lough.  But  as  he  sailed  in  a  narrow  opening  ap- 
peared; in  through  that,  and  running  before  the 
wind  for  five  minutes,  and  then  another  opening  in 
the  green  hillside;  past  an  island  no  bigger  than  a 
church,  where  a  man  was  hoeing  turnips  on  the 
sunny  slope,  round  a  corner,  now  port,  now  star- 
board, until  he  entered  the  narrow  river  itself. 
There  was  a  light  breeze  that  filled  the  gaff-topsail 
when  the  lower  sails,  sheltered  by  the  banks,  were 
empty  of  wind;  the  water  was  as  still  as  glass  ex- 
cept for  the  ripple  and  send  of  the  incoming  tide; 
and  Rupert  settled  down  to  the  enjoyment  of  this 
enchanted  bit  of  salt-water  navigation. 

There  was  no  sound  except  the  ripple  at  the  boat's 
stem,  the  creak  of  a  spar  when  she  leaned  to  a  puff 
from  over  the  land,  or  sometimes  the  drone  and  rasp 
of  a  reaping  machine  in  the  distance.  Up  a  long 
straight  stretch,  with  the  wind  astern,  it  was  like 
flying.  Then  a  little  weedy  point  would  show  itself 
running  out  into  the  stream,  up  would  go  the  helm, 
in  would  come  the  sheets,  and  there  would  be  a  heel- 
ing rush  for  perhaps  three  minutes;  another  point, 
and  he  must  down  helm  and  go  about  to  clear  it, 
and  then  for  a  time  beat  up  across  the  narrow  liquid 
roadway;  sailing  full-and-by  while  you  counted  ten, 


86  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

until  the  bowsprit  was  almost  touching  the  rocks  on 
the  stony  shore,  then  about  ship,  and  make  a  little 
more  on  the  next  tack,  then  straight  across  again, 
and  so  on  while  the  adverse  reach  lasted. 

After  a  couple  of  hours  of  this  the  M aid  of  Lome 
glided  beside  the  little  sunny  quay  built  at  the  point 
where  the  river  became  too  shallow  and  narrow  for 
ordinary  navigation.  Rupert  ate  his  lunch  and  then 
walked  the  half-mile  into  Ardryan.  The  excitement 
of  the  voyage  had  evaporated,  the  streets  were  hot 
and  dusty  after  the  cool  flowing  water,  and  the  noon- 
day stagnation  and  depression  of  the  little  town  lay 
heavily  on  his  spirits.  The  shops  were  open  but 
deserted,  the  streets  empty  and  silent  but  for  fowls 
that  stepped  about  pecking  there.  Even  they  were 
quiet,  crooning  and  croaking,  and  showing  no  anima- 
tion except  at  the  impulsive  visitation  of  the  cock, 
when  there  would  be  a  sudden  outcry  and  fluttering 
of  feathers,  subsiding  quickly  again  into  quiet  croon- 
ings  and  croakings.  There  was  a  beggar  in  the 
market  square,  a  drunken  man  lay  asleep  against 
the  market  house,  two  or  three  ragged  children  were 
shuffling  their  feet  in  the  hot  dust,  and  now  and 
then  a  pig  would  pass  down  the  street  with  an  air 
of  having  important  business  as  an  inspector  of 
nuisances;  but  nothing  else  seemed  to  be  stirring. 
Every  second  shop  in  the  street  advertised  the  sale 
of  porter;  the  few  buildings  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  square  had  an  air  of  shabby  gentility  and 
pretentious  magnificence;  but  beyond  them  the 
houses  grew  poorer  and  poorer,  until  they  degen- 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  87 

elated  into  a  long  line  of  dirty  hovels.  And  this 
was  Ireland!  Rupert  stood  in  the  street,  taking  it 
in ;  even  the  signs  of  prosperity  were  of  a  petty  and 
pathetic  kind  —  the  wretched  railway  station,  with 
its  four  trains  a  day,  the  Orange  Hall,  with  its  ad- 
vertisement of  a  minstrel  entertainment,  and  the 
announcement  of  municipal  contracts  to  be  let  for 
stone-hreaking,  for  the  supply  of  three  wheelbarrows, 
for  the  erection  of  a  public  convenience  on  the  quay 
wall. 

Rupert  went  on  to  the  cathedral,  where  he  found 
most  of  the  people  who  would  otherwise  have  been 
in  the  streets.  The  eleven  o'clock  mass  was  coming 
to  an  end,  and  he  stood  for  a  minute  by  the  western 
doorway.  Living  as  he  did  amid  a  Protestant  com- 
munity in  Ireland  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  take 
in  any  but  the  externals  of  the  scene;  its  inner 
meaning,  the  hidden  golden  thread  it  wove  through 
the  dark  fabric  of  the  people's  lives,  he  could  not 
know;  all  he  saw  were  the  outward  domination, 
the  tawdry  pomp,  the  coarse,  stupid  faces  of  the 
priests,  the  beautiful,  patient  faces  of  some  of  the 
people. 

He  turned  out  again  into  the  sunshine,  and  felt 
Ireland  wrapping  him  round  like  a  cloak.  The  deep 
green  of  the  country  beyond  the  town,  the  soft,  hot 
air,  the  silence,  the  sun,  the  dirt,  the  sense  that  noth- 
ing mattered  very  much,  and  few  things  mattered 
at  all,  were  eloquent  to  him  at  that  moment  of  lives 
dreaming  themselves  away  from  hour  to  hour.  A 
sudden  sense  of  revolt  took  hold  on  him,  and  he 


88  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

viciously  kicked  a  loose  pebble  at  his  feet  and  sent 
it  flying  up  the  street.  It  landed  among  the  som- 
nolent fowls,  and  woke  them  to  a  shrill  outburst 
of  cries  and  headlong  flutterings;  but  they  soon 
settled  down  again  in  the  warm  comfortable  dust, 
croaking  indignantly  to  one  another  of  the  wrongs 
they  suffered.  And  that  was  Ireland  too ! 

A  figure  came  towards  him  along  the  street  —  a 
carefully-dressed,  well-bred  man  of  middle  age  with 
a  gentle  face  and  a  very  red  nose,  whom  Rupert 
recognized  as  Mr.  Rafferty,  the  bank  manager.  He 
had  been  there  for  twenty  years,  and  would  be  there 
till  he  died;  his  initial  stock  of  impulse  had  all 
been  spent  long  ago,  and  he  was  stranded  for  ever, 
poor  gentleman,  in  the  place  to  which  it  had  carried 
him. 

"  How  are  you,  Rupert  ?  Miss  Savage  quite  well 
—  and  Miss  Jane  ?  You've  sailed  up,  of  course. 
Gracious  goodness,  but  it's  hot.  Come  in  out  of 
the  glare  and  rest  a  minute.  We're  very  quiet  here 
to-day." 

For  lack  of  any  plan  of  his  own,  Rupert  followed 
Mr.  Rafferty  into  the  adjoining  bank;  they  passed 
through  the  little  polished  counter,  where  the  scales 
lay  idle,  and  books  unwritten,  to  the  parlour  behind. 
It  was  close  and  stuffy,  infinitely  solemn,  and  dark 
and  uncomfortable,  with  that  kind  of  formal  dis- 
comfort which  is  only  to  be  found  in  the  apartments 
of  a  joyless,  elderly  bachelor. 

"  Dear  me !  "  said  Mr.  Rafferty,  wiping  his  fore- 
head, "  I  feel  quite  sick  with  heat.  You're  not  look- 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  89 

ing  too  well  yourself,  Rupert ;  I  declare  now,  a  little 
drop  of  something  would  do  neither  of  us  any  harm." 
And  he  instinctively  closed  the  door. 

"  I  don't  think  I'll  have  any,  thanks,"  said  Ru- 
pert, who  was  watching  the  older  man  with  the  mer- 
ciless curiosity  of  youth ;  "  I'm  not  used  to  whisky 
at  this  time  of  day." 

"  And  quite  right,"  said  Mr.  Rafferty  with  an  air 
of  great  interest.  "  I  don't  usually  take  anything 
myself  at  this  time;  but  to-day,  what  with  the  heat 
or  something,  I  feel  the  need  of  it.  Come  now  — 
tsch,  man !  it'll  do  ye  no  harm  —  do  ye  all  the  good 
in  the  world !  " 

"  You  speak  with  authority,"  said  Rupert,  smi- 
ling. "  All  right,  a  little,  then." 

He  watched  the  bank  manager  as,  with  an  inde- 
scribable air  of  stealth  and  furtiveness,  he  went  to 
a  cupboard  and  brought  out  a  decanter  and  glasses. 
They  were  his  own  decanter  and  glasses ;  but  if  they 
had  been  the  crown  jewels  he  could  not  have  handled 
them  more  guiltily. 

"  This  is  a  drop  of  good  stuff,"  he  said ;  "  I  get  it 
direct  from  the  distiller;  I  don't  believe  in  any  of 
these  blended  spirits."  When  he  talked  of  the  whisky 
he  spoke  with  an  almost  painful  seriousness,  his  brows 
knitted  and  his  cheeks  drawn  up,  as  if  the  subject 
were  almost  too  difficult  and  important  to  be  dis- 
cussed in  an  ordinary  way.  His  hand  shook  a  little 
as  he  poured  out  the  precious  golden  liquid;  and 
to  Rupert  there  was  something  pathetic  in  the  action 
of  groping  hospitality  —  the  poor  lonely  man  anx- 


90  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

ious  to  share  his  weakness  with  his  guest,  and  get 
a  little  countenance  and  self-respect.  Like  many 
men  who  drink  too  much,  he  was  careful  to  measure 
the  spirit  in  a  wine-glass  before  he  added  the  water. 
Nothing  would  have  induced  him  to  mix  more  than 
one  wine-glassful  —  at  a  time.  Then  he  performed 
the  customary  act  of  faith  of  the  furtive  whisky-tip- 
pler, who  always,  if  possible,  avoids  mentioning  his 
favourite  beverage  by  name,  but  refers  to  it  as  Some- 
thing, or  It,  or  Anything  of  the  Kind. 

"  I  always  think,"  he  said,  raising  his  glass  to 
the  light,  "  that  as  a  rule  one  is  better  without  Any- 
thing of  the  Kind."  (Here  he  drank  half  the  con- 
tents. )  "  But  if  one  should  require  to  take  Some- 
thing, a  glass  of  This  is  as  wholesome  a  thing  as  a 
man  can  take."  (Here  he  drank  the  other  half.) 
"  If  one  is  in  health,  one  is  better  without  It  alto- 
gether." (Here  he  set  down  the  glass.)  "I  envy 
you  your  health,  Rupert" 

It,  and  Something,  and  This,  and  Anything  of  the 
Kind  having  been  disposed  of  and  returned  to  their 
cupboard,  Mr.  Rafferty  turned  to  Rupert  with  a 
little  brightness  in  his  drooping  eye. 

"  And  what  are  you  thinking  of  doing  with  your- 
self, my  boyo?  Not  stop  at  the  Abbacy,  I'll  be 
bound." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  I  shall  stay  at  home  much 
longer."  Rupert  had  never  before  felt  the  deter- 
mination enough  to  put  it  into  words,  but  even  as 
he  spoke  he  made  the  resolution.  "  I  shall  be  leav- 
ing quite  soon  —  going  to  London,  probably." 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  91 

"  Ah,  that's  the  place,"  said  Mr.  Rafferty  with  a 
sigh ;  "  there's  some  movement  to  things  there.  But 
a  man  might  as  well  be  dead  as  stuck  away  in  a 
dirty  hole  like  this." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  at  the  bank,  Mr.  Raf- 
ferty ? " 

"  Twenty  years  last  May,"  answered  the  manager. 
"  Your  Aunt  Jane  was  a  fine  woman  then,  Rupert" 
He  looked  at  Rupert,  and  then  on  the  floor,  with  a 
little  sigh.  And  Rupert  remembered  vague  refer- 
ences to  Mr.  Rafferty,  and  wondered  if  there  had 
been  any  stifled  romance  there,  and  if  this  gloomy 
house  were  the  mausoleum  of  some  vanished  hopes. 
And  all  the  while  his  eye  was  ranging  round  the 
gloomy  dining-room,  looking  at  the  pictures  Mr. 
Rafferty  looked  at,  at  the  glasses  he  drank  out  of, 
at  the  silver  he  was  served  with,  and  picturing  the 
gaunt  housekeeper  who  hovered  over  his  lonely 
meals.  The  talk  drifted  away  to  the  general  dulness 
of  Ardryan,  and  the  general  dulness  of  everything, 
until  Rupert  felt  that  he  could  stand  it  no  longer, 
and  got  up  to  go. 

Mr.  Rafferty  looked  at  his  watch.  "  Three  o'clock ! 
I  must  be  off  too.  There's  a  meeting  of  the  Bench 
at  the  market-house."  As  he  said  the  word  "  Bench  " 
he  seemed  to  swell  with  importance ;  buttoned  his 
coat,  spoke  a  word  to  his  somnolent  clerk,  and  with 
a  hand-shake  for  Rupert,  hurried  off.  Rupert 
watched  the  gentlemanly  figure  turn  the  corner  of 
the  square  and  realized  that  life  could  be  made  sup- 
portable in  Ardryan  by  two  things  —  Something  in 


92  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

a  corner  cupboard,  and  the  dignities  of  the  Bench: 
the  Bench  that  tried  young  Andy  Neligan  for  using 
obscene  language,  middle-aged  Tom  Quinn  for  cru- 
elty to  his  donkey,  and  old  Ann  M'Guire  for  being 
drunk. 


He  hurried  away  down  the  leafy  road  that  led  to 
the  quay  where  the  Maid  of  Lome  was  moored,  the 
spirit  of  revolt  against  stagnation  quickened  in  him 
by  the  sense  of  depression  that  had  culminated  in 
Mr.  Rafferty's  parlour. 

The  external  life,  so  pleasant  and  beautiful  as 
it  had  seemed,  so  satisfying  hitherto,  was  revealed  in 
his  present  mood  as  a  kind  of  death.  The  leaven  of 
pain  and  discontent  that  gives  life  and  enlargement 
to  the  world  of  men  was  working  in  his  soul;  and 
as  he  cast  off  the  warps  and  stepped  down  on  the 
Maid  of  Lome's  white  decks,  he  felt  that  even  that 
pretty  feminine  companion  in  so  many  pleasures  and 
dangers,  so  many  sea-wanderings  and  hours  and 
years  of  his  growing-time,  belonged  to  this  green, 
sunny  world  of  death,  and  not  to  the  world  of  life. 

He  felt  all  this  very  vaguely  in  his  hot  young 
heart,  but  with  a  dim  sense  of  tragedy.  The  water 
eddied  from  the  rudder  as  the  Maid  of  Lome  paid 
off,  with  the  ebb  tide  sliding  beneath  her  keel  and 
the  light  breeze  caressing  her  upper  canvas.  She 
was  as  nearly  human  as  a  thing  of  timber  and  sails 
can  be,  and  very  feminine,  and  she  leaned  her  white 
shoulder  over  the  ripples,  trying  to  edge  up  into  the 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  93 

wind  and  pretending  to  resist  the  masterly  hand 
that  was  pointing  her  away  from  her  sunny  retreat 
beside  the  weed-grown  pier.  She  was  almost  a  part 
of  Rupert,  and  he  of  her,  as  he  sat  there  with  an 
elbow  crooked  over  the  tiller  and  an  eye  cocked  on 
the  luff  of  the  mainsail ;  she  seemed  to  know  as  well 
as  he  when  she  had  stood  in  near  enough  to  the  shore 
where  the  waters  slept,  green  and  transparent,  over 
the  stony  shallows,  and  she  would  shoot  round  into 
the  wind  almost  before  his  decision  had  been  com- 
municated to  the  tiller,  And  then,  when  the  neces- 
sity for  tacking  was  over,  she  spread  her  wings  and 
flew  between  the  narrow  shores,  silently  and  swiftly 
homeward. 

She  belonged  already  to  the  past,  and  not  to  the 
future.  Rupert  felt  that  there  was  a  wrench  coming, 
a  parting  between  him  and  her  and  all  that  she  stood 
for,  and  in  that  moment  he  realized  how  dear  to  him 
was  all  this  quiet  sheltered  life,  with  its  open-air 
interests,  its  ties  of  pleasant  habit,  its  placid  arrange- 
ments for  mere  continuance  in  being  from  day  to 
day.  The  tide  was  running  out  fast  now  towards  the 
lough  and  the  sea ;  its  rippling  voice  spoke  intimately 
to  him,  as  it  often  did,  but  to-day  there  seemed  to 
be  a  graver  tone  beneath  the  music.  The  water  that 
was  hurrying  down  the  river,  past  cornfields  and 
meadows,  by  deeps  and  shallows,  setting  across  from 
point  to  bay  and  from  creek  to  midstream,  would 
never  of  itself  carry  him  out  of  the  lough.  Long 
before  it  had  reached  the  bar  the  tide  would  have 
turned  again,  and  the  channel  waters  would  come 


94  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

flowing  back,  holding  it  and  him  imprisoned  there 
unless  there  were  effort  made  of  sail  or  oar. 

But  the  Maid  of  Lorne  was  no  servant  of  tidss. 
With  her  sails  spread  wing  and  wing  she  far  out- 
stripped the  ebbing  current,  opening  one  point  after 
another,  entering  one  after  another  the  shining 
reaches  of  the  river  —  short  and  seeming  to  be  so 
securely  land-locked  that  it  was  like  running  the  boat 
on  destruction  to  hold  her  on  her  course.  And  yet 
one  after  another,  appearing  as  if  by  magic  in  the 
barrier  of  rocks  and  grassy  shore,  the  openings  al- 
ways came;  and  though  here  they  revealed  a  world 
of  peace,  of  golden  crops  and  drowsing  cattle,  yet 
somewhere  beyond  them  all,  round  just  such  another 
rocky  point,  lay  the  open  sea. 

Long  afterwards  he  remembered  that  last  hour  of 
sunny,  melancholy  peace. 

The  wind  freshened  near  the  mouth  of  the  river, 
and  as  he  rounded  the  last  point  and  entered  the 
broad  waters  of  the  lough,  a  heavy  puff  struck  the 
Maid  of  Lorne,  dragging  her  lee  rail  under  water, 
and  causing  Rupert  to  look  doubtfully  at  the  big 
spread  of  fine-weather  canvas  that  cracked  and 
flapped  viciously  as  he  luffed  up  into  the  wind.  It 
had  been  so  fine  and  settled  when  he  left  that  he 
had  not  anticipated  having  to  touch  a  halliard  until 
he  got  home,  and  so  he  had  not  brought  a  man  with 
him;  but  there  was  a  dark-looking  bank  of  clouds 
hanging  over  the  horizon  towards  home,  and  the 
wind  felt  as  though  it  might  increase.  On  the  other 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  95 

hand,  it  came  very  puffy,  in  brief  squalls^  any  one  of 
which  might  clear  the  weather  again.  Taking  in 
sail  single-handed,  unless  he  anchored  to  do  it,  would 
be  a  troublesome  operation,  and  in  an  hour  he  could 
be  home.  Still.  .  .  . 

He  ran  in  under  the  lee  of  an  island,  and  managed 
to  get  the  gaff-topsail  off  her  and  stowed  away,  but 
the  tide  was  running  too  strong  to  permit  him  to 
lie-to  for  the  purpose  of  reefing  the  mainsail.  As 
he  came  out  from  behind  the  land  another  squall 
struck  him,  and  he  saw  that  it  would  be  as  much 
as  the  Maid  of  Lome  could  do  to  get  home  in  her 
present  trim.  He  meant  to  lower  the  foresail  and 
hoist  the  tack  of  the  mainsail,  but  the  wind  gave  him 
no  opportunity ;  as  soon  as  he  thought  he  could  leave 
the  helm  and  run  forward,  the  water  would  wrinkle 
darkly  over  the  weather  bow,  and  the  boat  would  lie 
down  under  the  squall,  and  shoot  up  into  it  all  sha- 
king. Three  miles  away  on  the  weather-beam  he 
could  see  the  Hilda,  Lord  Rathshene's  thirty-ton 
ketch,  under  three-reefed  mainsail  and  storm  jib: 
that  looked  as  if  things  were  not  going  to  improve. 

Every  time  the  Maid  of  Lome  heeled  to  a  puff, 
the  green  water  swirled  up  to  her  combings,  and  the 
mast  and  rigging  creaked  under  the  strain.  The 
worst  moments  were  those  just  after  going  about  on 
a  new  tack.  It  was  a  dead  beat  home,  and  every 
time  Rupert  put  the  helm  down,  something  seemed 
to  move  in  the  pit  of  his  stomach  —  a  sign  of  that 
excruciating  interest  in  one's  own  fate  that  takes  the 
place  of  fear  in  a  confident  nature.  The  Maid  of 


96  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

Lome  had  an  old  trick,  when  pressed  with  canvas, 
of  seeming  to  lie  dead  for  a  moment  when  she  first 
filled  on  a  new  tack;  it  had  caused  much  comment 
at  local  regattas,  when  Kupert,  and  his  father  before 
him,  had  won  many  a  race  by  carrying  the  last  pos- 
sible stitch  of  sail,  and  holding  on  by  their  teeth 
when  the  puffs  came.  Now,  pressed  as  she  was,  the 
boat  exhibited  this  old  vice  alarmingly.  ...  If  only 
she  were  free  of  that  foresail ! 

Time  to  go  about  again.  Lee  helm  —  let  go  jib- 
sheet  —  haul  in  —  let  draw  foresail  —  make  fast  — 
ah,  there  she  went  again!  Down  came  the  squall, 
pressing  like  a  solid  weight  on  the  sails.  Rupert  put 
the  helm  down,  his  hand  and  the  tiller  going  into 
solid  green  water  —  but  she  refused  to  answer. 
Then  several  things  happened  in  a  very  rapid  suc- 
cession. There  was  no  rush  of  water  past  the  rail; 
the  waves  surged  dead  and  heavy  beside  the  boat, 
and  a  silver-green  cascade  curved  over  the  hatch 
combings.  Rupert  had  suddenly  a  sense  of  loss  of 
balance.  Instinctively  he  pulled  himself  up  to  the 
weather  gunwale,  which  was  coming  up  against  the 
sky;  looked  over,  saw  the  white  sheen  of  the  keel 
showing  through  the  water  —  and  jumped. 

There  was  a  deafening  roar  of  water,  a  taste  of 
salt,  and  suddenly  a  complete  tranquillity,  which 
seemed  to  last  a  thousand  years.  Then  green  twi- 
light, and  a  blinding  emergence  into  clamour  and 
commotion  again.  Rupert  shook  the  water  from  his 
eyes,  and  saw  a  dozen  yards  away  the  peak  of  the 
Maid  of  Lome's  mainsail  and  the  truck  of  her 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  97 

mast  subsiding  amid  a  swirl  of  wicked-looking  ed- 
dies. 

There  were  a  great  many  thoughts  rapidly  formed 
in  the  head  that  bobbed  up  and  down  there  in  the 
blue  choppy  water ;  but  "  Finish "  was  the  only 
word  that  issued  from  the  mouth.  From  the  level 
of  the  water  the  nearest  shore,  four  miles  away,  was 
barely  visible;  still,  it  lay  to  leeward;  better  try 
for  it.  Rupert  was  a  good  enough  swimmer,  al- 
though not  trained  to  cover  distances;  and,  having 
kicked  off  his  shoes  and  wriggled  out  of  his  coat,  he 
settled  down  to  a  long,  steady  stroke.  He  was  deter- 
mined not  to  look  again  until  he  knew  the  shore  must 
be  close  at  hand,  and  he  lulled  himself  into  a  mechan- 
ical oblivion  by  the  regular  sweep  of  his  arms. 

When  he  was  almost  spent,  having  swam,  with 
an  occasional  rest  on  his  back,  for  what  seemed  more 
than  an  hour,  and  when  he  expected  every  moment 
to  feel  the  stones  under  his  feet,  he  looked  ahead. 
The  shore  was  no  nearer.  Then  he  suddenly  felt 
very  tired;  his  sense  of  tiredness  overcame  every- 
thing else.  He  would  rest  for  a  few  minutes,  and 
then  go  on.  How  delicious  to  let  go,  and  lie  down: 
that  was  his  uppermost  thought.  He  was  dimly 
conscious  of  a  pain  in  his  chest,  but  nothing  more. 
Ah,  how  warm  and  comfortable  it  was,  after  all  that 
buffeting  and  striving,  to  be  in  bed  again! 


VII 

IT  was  to  another  world  and  another  life  that 
Rupert  came  back,  weeks  afterwards.  The  return 
to  life  was  far  more  painful  than  the  exit,  and  far 
slower;  it  was  a  long  time  before  he  felt  any  curi- 
osity in  his  surroundings,  or  wanted  to  ask  any  ques- 
tions. Gradually  he  learned  that  he  had  been  very 
ill  with  pneumonia.  He  had  been  picked  up  by  the 
Hilda,,  from  which  the  capsizing  of  the  Maid  of 
Lome  had  been  seen ;  they  had  got  him  just  in  time, 
and  it  was  hours  before  animation  had  been  restored. 
He  learned  the  details  from  his  Aunt  Jane,  who 
shared  the  duties  of  the  trained  nurse  who  attended 
him. 

His  first  thought  was  for  the  boat.  "  Tell  me," 
he  asked ;  "  I  suppose  nothing  more  was  seen  of 
her  ? " 

"  No,  dear ;  they  say  she  sank  in  thirty  fathoms, 
and  it  would  be  almost  impossible  to  raise  her." 

There  was  a  pause.  "  Never  mind ;  let  her  lie 
there  —  poor  Maid;  it  wasn't  her  fault  altogether." 

"  Oh,  Rupert,  how  could  you  run  such  risks !  You 
know  we  never  worried  you  or  lectured  you  —  be- 
cause we  trusted  you  —  we  —  "  The  old  lady  put 
her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  99 

"  I  know,  I  know ;  dear  old  auntie,  I  wasn't  a 
fool,  but  there's  always  a  risk  in  a  boat,  and  it  caught 
me  that  time.  Don't  be  cut  up;  why,  you'd  think 
I'd  croaked  altogether.  Where's  Aunt  Lena  ?  Why 
hasn't  she  been  to  see  me  ?  " 

The  old  lady  looked  at  him  through  her  tears  with 
an  infinite,  tragic  tenderness.  He  noticed  for  the 
first  time  how  tired  and  worn  she  looked.  "  She's 

—  she's  —  oh,  Rupert,  she's  very,  very  ill !  " 

"  What  ?  "  He  sat  half  up  in  bed,  but  had  to  lie 
back  again.  "  What's  the  matter  ?  How  long  has 
she  been  ill  —  and  why  —  " 

Then  he  saw  that  her  black  dress  was  entirely 
unrelieved  by  any  of  the  little  ornaments  she  usually 
wore;  and  in  the  same  moment  the  old  lady  laid 
her  withered  cheek  on  the  pillow  beside  his,  find  told 
him  everything.  His  aunt  had  nursed  him  herself, 
only  letting  the  hospital  nurse  attend  at  night;  and 
at  the  height  of  Rupert's  fever  she  had  been  taken 
ill  herself,  and  died  within  the  week.  Everything 

—  her  illness,  death,  and  funeral,  which  the  whole 
of  Rathshene  had  attended,  had  come  and  gone  while 
he  lay  unconscious. 

"  The  last  thing  she  said,"  said  Miss  Jane  through 
her  tears,  "  was  '  Keep  this  from  Rupert  until  he  is 
strong.'  She  never  spoke  after  that,  and  she  died 
the  next  day.  We  were  glad  to  see  her  go  ...  she 
suffered  very  much." 

There  was  a  long  silence  in  the  room.  Rupert 
put  his  arm  about  the  old  lady,  and  gently  patted 
her  and  soothed  her,  while  he  tried  to  learn  this  new 


100  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

lesson  —  that  the  world  no  longer  held  her  who  had 
been  a  second  mother  to  him.  His  thoughts  went 
back  to  that  last  day,  to  the  sunny,  silent  streets  of 
Ardryan,  to  his  own  depression  and  forebodings,  and 
determination  to  leave  the  old  life  behind  him.  He 
remembered,  too,  that  heavenly  skimming  of  the 
river  reaches  on  the  ebb  tide,  when  the  M aid  of  Lome 
was  hurrying  to  her  death.  These  were  some  of  the 
things  that  had  lain  waiting  for  them  beyond  those 
rocky  points. 

As  life  came  back  to  Rupert  another  tide  that  had 
seemed  to  ebb  almost  to  dryness  came  pouring  again 
through  his  veins.  While  he  lay  in  his  long  chair, 
tired  of  reading  or  talking,  his  thoughts  and  dreams 
gathered  more  and  more  round  the  radiant,  unform- 
ing  personality  that  had  dawned  upon  his  life. 
Everything  else  seemed  to  be  receding;  there  was 
talk  of  his  aunt  going  for  a  time  to  some  English 
watering-place,  and  afterwards  to  visit  friends  in 
England,  and  the  doctor  had  suggested  that  Rupert 
ought  to  travel  a  little  for  change  of  air  and  scene. 
Since  the  death  of  Miss  Savage  life  on  the  old  terms 
seemed  more  and  more  impossible ;  it  was  really  she, 
his  second  mother,  who  had  been  holding  him  there, 
and  now  that  she  was  gone  the  way  to  the  world  lay 
open  for  him. 

It  was  characteristic  of  him  that  he  saw  this  way 
to  the  world  lying  through  his  heart.  A  door  there, 
like  the  door  that  showed  Siegmund  the  glory  of  the 
May  night  in  the  forest,  had  swung  open  to  reveal 


WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS  101 

the  wonder  of  ideal  love,  and  it  had  not  closed  again. 
He  began  to  see  Lady  Fastnet  as  his  destiny;  and, 
like  a  bird  that  pulls  an  unused  nest  to  pieces  and 
adapts  it  for  herself,  his  busy  imagination  set  about 
reconstructing  the  character  of  Lady  Fastnet  in  ac- 
cordance with  his  ideal.  The  real  nature  of  their 
friendship  was  forgotten  or  ignored;  it  began  to 
assume  the  proportions  of  a  grand  dramatic  passion, 
in  which  both  were  cast  for  noble  parts.  As  other 
things  in  his  life  dwindled,  this  new  fire  waxed 
brighter  and  warmer ;  the  thought  of  her  out  in  the 
world,  waiting  for  him  to  come  and  rescue  her  and 
carry  her  off,  inspired  him  with  new  life,  so  that  the 
very  doctor  was  puzzled  to  account  for  his  rapid 
recovery. 

Before  his  illness  the  poet  and  artist  in  Rupert 
had  been  subordinate  to  the  youth,  interested  merely 
in  being  young  and  alive  and  growing;  but  in  the 
subtle  change  and  chemical  revolution  of  disease  the 
more  material  partner  had  been  vanquished  and 
overthrown,  and  the  poet,  the  spiritual  partner, 
reigned  supreme.  He  was  all  impatience  to  rush  out 
into  the  world.  As  soon  as  he  was  up  and  about  he 
set  upon  his  studio,  rummaging  out  all  his  drawings, 
ruthlessly  destroying  what  seemed  to  his  new-born 
faculty  of  criticism  unpassionate  or  uninspired.  As 
though  driven  by  some  great  and  irresistible  force 
he  found  himself  tidying  up  his  life  and  making 
arrangements  for  leaving  it.  He  was  like  some  pas- 
sionately faithful  and  believing  Christian  who  has 
been  told  he  cannot  live  a  week,  and  who  sets  his 


102  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

affairs  in  order,  looking  not  towards  death,  but 
towards  life. 

It  was  his  own  burning  secret,  this  sense  of  de- 
parture, for  although  in  their  talks  it  had  come  to 
be  understood  between  him  and  his  aunt  that  as  soon 
as  he  felt  inclined  he  was  to  start  off  on  his  travels, 
there  was  no  date  fixed,  and  the  old  lady  hardly 
realized  the  coming  separation.  He  went  up  to  the 
home  farm,  and  even  took  an  interest  in  the  clearing 
of  a  new  space  for  out-buildings,  talking  over  plans 
and  designs  with  the  foreman,  although  he  knew  he 
would  not  be  there  to  see  the  work  done.  And  when 
he  rode  into  Rathshene,  and  met  and  spoke  with  ac- 
quaintances there,  he  was  unconsciously  taking  fare- 
well of  them.  They  were  welcoming  him  back  to  the 
life  of  their  own  little  world  while  he  was  saying 
good-bye  to  them  and  it. 

And  last  of  all,  on  a  day  that  had  been  brightened 
by  mellow  winter  sunshine,  he  rowed  down  the  lough 
on  an  ebb-tide  to  Gunn's  Island,  and  climbed  to  his 
favourite  seat  and  let  himself  be  steeped  for  a  little 
in  the  familiar  scenery  and  music  of  the  tide.  It 
was  all  grey  and  calm,  the  dead  flat  calm  of  a  win- 
ter's afternoon,  with  a  cold  touch  of  melancholy  in 
the  atmosphere,  and  a  minor  cadence  in  all  the  har- 
monies of  sea  and  air.  He  had  no  thought  of  draw- 
ing; he  simply  lived  this  hour  in  a  curious  exalted 
communion  with  the  spirit  of  the  place.  The  winter 
air  seemed  charged  with  magic  to  him,  and  the  soli- 
tary island  rock  to  be  alive  with  some  fairy  presences 
that  kept  watch  with  him  invisibly  from  the  rough 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  1Q3 

hummocks  and  stones.  The  Priest's  Mother  sobbed 
and  murmured;  the  Meadows  spread  their  endless 
inscrutable  caligraphy  on  the  grey  water,  making 
circles  and  nourishes,  and  forming  the  letters  of 
their  mysterious  alphabet  in  words  of  unending  vari- 
ety, and  the  tide  roared  itself  away  into  the  quiet- 
ness of  the  grey  sea.  But  through  the  ebb  and  the 
moment  of  emptiness  that  heralded  the  first  return- 
ing ripple  Rupert  felt  no  ebb  in  his  heart.  There 
was  a  sun  shining  there  that  held  back  his  spirits 
from  effluence,  and  kept  his  sense  of  life  at  flood; 
and  he  looked  his  farewells  without  any  regret  at 
his  departure  from  this  scene  of  so  many  dreams 
and  efforts.  When  he  drew  up  his  boat  in  the  little 
harbour  at  home  he  felt  that  he  was  almost  free. 

He  and  his  aunt  sat  talking  after  dinner  by  the 
drawing-room  fire.  They  were  both  specially  con- 
scious of  their  loss  on  these  winter  evenings,  when 
the  empty  chair  and  silent  voice  seemed  to  separate 
rather  than  unite  them.  Rupert  felt  nearer  than 
ever  to  the  edge  of  the  world  as  they  spoke  about 
simple  practical  things  connected  with  the  house, 
and  money,  and  the  doings  of  lawyers  and  bankers. 
Rupert  would  have  three  hundred  a  year,  which 
seemed  to  him  a  large  sum  —  large  enough  for  all 
material  occasions  that  life  could  ever  discover.  A 
cousin  was  coming  the  next  day  to  keep  Miss  Savage 
company,  and  to  go  away  with  her  to  England.  .  .  . 
Rupert  suddenly  felt  conscious  of  an  acute  longing 
to  vanish  from  this  scene  without  further  farewells ; 


104  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

the  sight  of  the  drooping  old  figure  in  the  chair  op- 
posite grew  intolerably  pathetic,  and  intolerably  re- 
mote from  him.  From  henceforth  she  would  live 
with  ghosts  and  memories ;  she  was  dedicated  to  the 
grave,  and  he  was  dedicated  to  life.  Oh,  he  must  go, 
he  must  go ;  now,  that  very  night,  that  was  the  time 
to  go.  But  where  ?  .  .  . 

"  Listen,  Rupert,  here  is  something  that  will  in- 
terest you."  The  old  lady  began  to  read  from  the 
newspaper  an  account  of  a  court  function  in  Dublin, 
and  then,  from  the  lists  of  names  and  dresses  sup- 
plied by  the  enterprising  dressmakers  — 

"  Countess  of  Fastnet.  Dress  of  soft  grey  satin 
embroidered  with  steel  paillettes;  train  of  cloth  of 
silver ;  ornaments,  emeralds  and  diamonds.  —  I'm 
sure  she  looked  charming  in  that ;  you  ought  to  have 
been  there  to  see  her.  I  remember  your  mother  wore 
grey  satin  at  the  last  drawing-room  she  was  at;  but 
it  was  grey  satin  with  old  needle-point  lace,  and  she 
wore  pearls.  She  was  very  much  admired,  I  remem- 
ber " 

i  "    i  *     •     •     • 

Rupert  was  not  listening.  A  picture  had  risen 
before  him,  and  a  flood  of  emotional  romantic  en- 
lightenment entered  his  mind.  He  would  go  to  her 
now  —  at  once  —  find  her  out  where  she  was ;  that 
was  the  obvious  necessary  thing  to  be  done.  Gradu- 
ally a  feeling  of  indignation  began  to  come  over  him 
against  the  old  lady  for  not  going  to  bed  the  moment 
he  had  silently  realized  his  decision;  she  stood  in 
the  way  of  it,  all  unconscious  as  she  was.  She  put 
down  the  paper  and  sat  placidly  knitting  while  Ru- 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  105 

pert,  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire,  fretted  with  a  new 
impatience.  Her  face  was  gravely  intent  on  the 
stitches  threaded  on  the  long  white  needle,  and  her 
mind  for  the  moment  was  rummaging  in  lavender- 
scented  chests  among  old  faded  silk  dresses. 

Rupert  got  up  suddenly,  stretched  himself  rather 
ostentatiously,  and  said,  "  Well,  isn't  it  somebody's 
bedtime  ?  " 

She  looked  up  smilingly.  "  Are  you  sleepy,  dear  ? 
Don't  wait  up  if  you  are ;  thirty-three,  thirty-four, 
thirty-five  —  I  think  I  must  finish  this  row  —  thirty- 
six,  thirty-seven,  thirty-eight.  .  .  ." 

He  sat  down  again.  "  No,  I  was  only  thinking 
of  you ;  I  shan't  go  to  bed  yet."  He  spoke  briefly, 
fearful  of  starting  a  subject  of  conversation  that 
would  delay  his  aunt,  watching  jealously  the  fleecy 
chain  of  stitches  that  slowly  lengthened  along  the 
needle.  Presently  she  laid  it  down,  and  he  moved 
impatiently. 

"  Talking  of  that  reminds  me,"  she  said,  uncon- 
scious of  his  hurry,  and  following  her  own  mild 
thoughts,  "  of  one  night  when  there  was  a  dance  at 
Ballyculter,  and  your  mother  and  I  were  going. 
Our  dresses  hadn't  come,  and  we  were  in  such  de- 
spair! She  was  to  have  worn  white,  and  I  pale 
blue  —  " 

"  Yes  ?  How  nice  you  must  have  looked !  I  sup- 
pose you  turned  all  the  young  men's  heads  that 
night." 

"  Well,  dear,  I  was  telling  you  —  seven,  eight, 
nine,  ten,  eleven ;  —  her  dress  was  to  have  been 


106  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

white  and  mine  pale  blue;  they  were  coming  from 
Dublin,  and  we  sent  to  the  last  train  to  meet  them. 
It  was  a  wet  night,  and  the  mare  shied  turning  the 
corner  into  Ardquin,  and  broke  the  shafts  and  har- 
ness to  pieces;  that  was  when  Nolan  got  his  arm 
hurt  —  or  was  it  that  time,  now,  or  before  that  ?  I 
think  it  must  have  been  before,  he  came  — 

"  I  say,"  said  Rupert ;  "  excuse  me  interrupting 
you,  but  I  think  the  lamp's  going  out."  He  jumped 
up  and  went  to  it,  turning  the  wick  a  little  without 
her  seeing.  "  Shall  I  ring  to  have  it  refilled,  or  is 
it  worth  while  ? "  He  almost  held  his  breath,  so 
much  seemed  to  hang  on  her  reply. 

"  No ;  never  mind,  dear,  I'm  ready  to  go  to  bed 
now."  She  began  to  make  her  deliberate  prepara- 
tions, unwilling  to  leave  the  warmth  of  the  fireside, 
folding  her  work  neatly  away,  her  shapely  old  hands 
touching  the  fleecy  wool  as  with  a  light  caress.  Ru- 
pert strode  up  and  down  the  room;  once  as  she 
paused,  he  paused  also,  and  with  hands  clenched  and 
his  whole  body  rigid  with  ridiculous  suspense  he 
apostrophized  her  silently  behind  her  back,  forming 
the  words  with  teeth  and  lips  but  making  no  sound 
—  "Oh,  go  on,  go  on!  " 

But  when  at  last  she  turned  to  him  to  say  good 
night  his  impatience  vanished,  and  he  saw  her  as 
she  was  —  old  and  lonely,  and  about  to  be  forsaken 
by  him.  How  could  he  do  it  ?  He  didn't  know ;  all 
he  knew  was  that  it  was  to  be  done.  A  mighty  steel 
point  seemed  to  have  begun  to  cleave  through  the 
world  before  him,  through  affections,  habits,  laws, 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  107 

decencies  even,  and  he  must  follow  close  behind 
it. 

It  was  with  an  unusual  tenderness  that  he  kissed 
her  good-night  and  when  he  had  done  so,  turned  to 
her  again  and  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  both 
cheeks.  It  was  his  farewell,  although  she  did  not 
know  it,  and  she  responded  gratefully  and  softly  to 
the  unspoken  love  and  tender  gratitude.  "  Good- 
night, Rupert  dear."  She  was  gone. 

The  moment  she  was  in  her  room  Rupert  went  out 
and  crossed  the  causeway  to  the  stable  building.  He 
had  some  difficulty  in  rousing  Nolan,  the  old  coach- 
man, who  had  gone  to  bed.  But  at  length  his  head 
appeared  at  the  window. 

"  Look  here,  Nolan,  I  want  you  to  be  ready  with 
the  car  to-morrow  morning  at  five  o'clock  to  catch 
the  first  train.  We  can  do  it  in  three  hours,  can't 
we?" 

"  And  why  wouldn't  we,  Master  Rupert,  your 
honour  ?  But  sure  'tis  early  —  " 

"  Never  mind  that.  Remember,  five  o'clock,  and 
come  quietly  to  the  house  so  as  not  to  wake  any 
one." 

"  So  I  will,  sir,"  the  head  disappeared,  but  con- 
tinued to  mutter  to  itself  about  "  the  queer  notion, 
that,  to  be  slippin'  up  to  the  house  the  way  not  to 
be  waking  any  person !  " 

Rupert  returned  with  swift  steps,  went  to  his 
bedroom,  opened  drawers  and  cupboards,  and  began 
to  pack.  He  was  wonderfully  methodical  in  spite 
of  his  haste.  In  two  roomy  suit-cases  he  stowed 


108  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

enough  to  furnish  him  for  a  few  weeks;  two  other 
trunks  he  packed  also,  and  left  them  strapped  and 
ready;  all  his  other  belongings  he  arranged  so  that 
they  could  be  sent  to  him  at  a  moment's  notice.  His 
drawings  had  already  been  packed  in  a  case,  but  he 
did  not  propose  to  take  them  with  him ;  he  had  only 
a  few  sketch-books  and  a  portfolio  containing  some 
of  his  best  work  —  notably  "  The  King's  Daughter." 
He  went  about  his  task  quietly  but  with  swift, 
decisive  movements,  sometimes  pausing  with  knitted 
brows  to  think,  or  remember  something,  or  make  a 
written  note  of  the  contents  of  some  box  or  other; 
and  once  or  twice  he  paused  and  looked  through  the 
uncurtained  window  into  the  violet  oblong  of  the 
night  sky,  his  face  transfigured  with  a  grave  and  yet 
intense  joy.  And  then  he  would  resume  his  quick, 
sure  movements  of  preparation.  He  was  not  as  a 
rule  either  orderly  or  methodical,  but  to-night  he 
forgot  nothing.  There  were  no  difficulties;  what 
would  at  any  ordinary  time  have  seemed  like  muddle 
and  confusion  fell  into  order  almost  miraculously; 
he  felt  the  steel  point  cleaving  the  way  before  him, 
cutting  a  sharp  and  well-defined  path  through  the 
jungle  of  details.  It  was  long  after  midnight  when 
he  had  finished  packing,  and  then  he  returned  to  the 
drawing-room,  and  sat  down  at  the  bureau  to  write 
a  message  for  his  aunt.  First  he  made  some  notes 
about  the  few  affairs  of  the  place  that  were  in  his 
charge,  seeing  that  everything  was  clear  and  in  order. 
He  even  balanced  the  cellar-book,  which  had  been 
his  father's  pride,  and  which  he  had  piously  attended 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  109 

to  ever  since  his  seventeenth  birthday,  writing  on  a 
large  slip  of  paper  inside  the  cover  — 

"  Note :  Willis  &  Co.  to  send  to  recork  the  Ma- 
deira, bin  17,  sometime  this  month.  R.  S." 

as  though  he  had  been  the  elderly,  methodical  father 
of  a  family  instead  of  an  infatuated  poet  of  two- 
and-twenty. 

He  sat  with  knitted  brows  for  a  moment  looking 
at  the  slip  after  he  had  written  it,  as  though  he  were 
trying  to  understand  what  it  was  about.  Then  he 
took  a  sheet  of  notepaper,  and  in  his  delicate  but 
mature  hand  wrote  without  any  pause  or  hesita- 
tion— 

"  DEAREST  AUNTIE,  —  I  shall  have  started  be- 
fore you  are  awake,  because  I  couldn't  bear  to  say 
good-bye.  I  have  left  everything  quite  straight,  I 
think,  and  when  I  want  any  more  of  my  things  Andy 
can  send  them  to  me  if  you  aren't  at  home.  I  shall 
go  to  Dublin  first,  and  shall  probably  stay  at  Rim- 
mon's  or  the  Shelbourne ;  but  in  any  case  letters  and 
things  can  be  sent  to  Mr.  McCann,  as,  even  if  I  go 
anywhere  at  short  notice,  I  will  keep  him  posted 
with  my  address,  and  you  must  do  the  same.  Cousin 
Helen  will  be  with  you  a  few  hours  after  you  get 
this,  and  then  you  won't  feel  lonely.  Of  course  I 
will  write  from  Dublin,  and  wherever  I  am. 
"  Your  ever  loving 

"  RUPEBT." 


110  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

He  left  the  letter  in  a  conspicuous  place  where  the 
housemaid  would  find  it  in  the  morning,  and  then 
with  one  last  look  round,  turned  out  the  lamp  and 
went  to  his  bedroom.  He  was  not  sleepy  or  tired, 
but  by  sheer  power  of  will  he  forced  himself  to  go 
to  bed  and  sleep  for  three  hours,  in  order  to  rise 
fresh  and  strong  for  the  wonder  and  joy  that  lay 
hidden  for  him  beyond  the  dawn.  As  he  laid  his 
head  on  the  pillow  and  closed  his  eyes,  the  vision  in 
his  mind  lay  clear  before  him  —  the  meeting  be- 
tween him  and  her,  the  end  and  solution  of  every- 
thing. Not  one  second  beyond  that  meeting  did  he 
look.  It  was  the  ark,  the  alighting  point  on  which 
his  soul  would  rest  at  the  end  of  its  first  long  flight. 
He  and  she !  He  saw  her  in  the  terms  of  that  terse 
accidental  description  of  the  dressmaker:  a  shimmer 
of  grey,  all  glorious  without  and  within.  His  art- 
ist's eye  distinguished  the  stiff  folds  of  the  cloth  of 
silver  and  the  soft  folds  of  the  satin,  and  the  glow 
of  emeralds  and  diamonds  in  the  pale  gold  hair;  it 
was  thus  that  he  pictured  her  in  the  hour  of  meet- 
ing. He  thought  of  his  coming  to  her  on  wings  of 
fire  and  love,  and  of  the  thrill  that  the  whole  uni- 
verse would  receive  when  their  eyes  met.  What  she 
would  say  or  do  formed  no  part  of  his  dream;  it 
was  he  who  was  coming,  he  who  was  to  do  and  to 
say.  She  stood  waiting  for  him  —  in  soft  grey  satin 
and  cloth  of  silver. 

His  three  hours'  sleep  robbed  him  of  nothing.  He 
awoke  at  four  o'clock  with  his  impulse  undiminished 
and  his  vision  undimmed.  Though  his  body  had 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  HI 

rested,  his  young  soul  had  been  flying  on  through 
the  night,  and  when  he  awoke  it  took  up  his  body 
again  and  bore  it  on  strong  wings  towards  the  goal. 
So  young  was  he,  so  ardent,  so  exalted,  so  romantic 
that  he  never  paused  or  wavered  or  doubted  any- 
thing, but  went  straight  on  behind  the  point  of  steel 
that  was  making  this  new  path  through  the  world 
for  him.  Through  the  long  cold  drive  in  the  dark 
of  the  morning  beside  puzzled,  sleepy  Nolan,  through 
the  discomforts  of  a  slow  railway  journey  —  through 
all  that  day  of  prolonged  impulse  his  poet's  store  of 
unreasonable,  romantic  certainty  never  failed  him. 
Every  step  of  that  day  was  taken  on  the  path  of  ray- 
ing beams  that  led  from  the  sunrise  of  the  heart, 
and  brought  him  in  mid  afternoon  to  the  door  of  a 
house  in  Merrion  Square. 


vin 

LADY  FASTNET  sat  in  the  faded,  pompous  draw- 
ing-room of  her  house  in  Dublin.  Her  husband,  a 
sallow,  loosely  built  man  of  about  forty,  with  a  long, 
narrow  face  and  dark,  hollow  eyes  set  rather  close 
together  was  sprawling  in  an  arm-chair  with  a  Cath- 
olic newspaper  in  his  hands.  Between  them  sat  a 
priest,  Father  Byrne,  a  florid,  bulky,  masterful  but 
kindly-looking  object  in  sleek  black  clothes  with  a 
sleek  shining  hat  deposited  between  his  feet.  He 
had  called  to  beg  on  behalf  of  the  Archconfraternity 
of  St.  Joseph,  and  incidentally  to  bask  a  little  in  an 
aristocratic  atmosphere,  and  had  become  engaged  in 
a  rather  feeble  discussion  with  Lord  Fastnet  on  so- 
dalities in  general. 

"  But  see  here  now,  Father,  I'm  for  the  discipline 
of  the  young  laity  as  much  as  any  man;  but  what 
I  say  is,  are  the  children  to  absorb  the  sodalities,  or 
are  the  sodalities  to  absorb  the  children  ?  " 

"  Well,  indeed,  and  that's  a  very  pertinent  ques- 
tion; but  if  your  lordship  had  been  in  my  parish 
room  last  week  when  we  held  our  festival  of  the 
Precious  Blood,  I  think  you'd  have  had  your  eyes 
opened.  Eleven  hundred  children  enrolled,  not  only 
as  junior  members  of  the  Precious  Blood,  but  as  full 

112 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  113 

members  —  full  members,  mind  you  —  of  the  So- 
dality of  the  Redeemer!  That's  what  the  Church 
is  doing  for  young  Ireland." 

"  Do  you  hear  that,  Geraldine  ? "  said  Lord  Fast- 
net,  turning  to  his  wife ;  "  if  we  could  get  more  of 
that  down  at  Castle  Fastnet  the  country  would  be 
in  a  better  state." 

Her  ladyship  turned  smiling  eyes  on  the  priest, 
"  I'm  afraid  our  old  Father  James  is  too  old-fash- 
ioned for  his  lordship ;  but  he's  the  kindest  man  that 
ever  had  charge  of  a  parish,  and  I  won't  hear  any 
treason  against  him.  The  children  all  adore  him." 

The  priest  laughed,  "  Sure  it  would  never  do  if 
we  were  all  alike,  my  lady.  But  we  must  have  airly 
discipline  if  the  Church  is  to  keep  tight  hold  of  the 
young  men  and  women." 

"  Yes,"  resumed  Lord  Fastnet  tediously,  turning 
to  his  wife ;  "  and  what  I  say  is,  would  Father 
James  be  any  worse  or  less  kind  a  man  if  he  made 
the  children's  souls  a  little  safer  instead  of  leaving 
them  to  run  wild?  Some  things  are  all  very  well, 
but  —  " 

A  maid  appeared  at  the  door.  "  Mr.  Rupert  Sav- 
age, my  lady." 

A  breath  of  newer  and  more  vital  air,  like  a  wind 
blowing  from  some  happy  land  of  youth,  seemed 
to  enter  the  room  with  the  gallant,  debonair  figure 
that  came  forward  across  the  faded  carpet.  He 
stood  for  perhaps  a  couple  of  seconds  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  looking  very  handsome,  in  the  spot  to 
which  his  long  impulse  had  carried  him.  The  point 


114  WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS 

of  steel  had  cloven  the  way  for  him  precisely  thus 
far  and  no  farther,  basely  deserting  him  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  lady,  her  husband,  and  a  priest. 

The  men  got  up,  and  Geraldine  half  rose  from 
her  chair  with  an  expression  of  mingled  surprise  and 
pleasure.  "  Why,  Rupert,  this  is  a  nice  surprise. 
When  did  you  arrive  ?  Edward,  you  have  heard  me 
speak  of  Mr.  Savage?  —  my  husband  —  Father 
Byrne.  Come  and  sit  here  and  tell  me  where  you 
have  dropped  from." 

Lord  Fastnet  shook  hands,  the  priest  bowed,  and 
Rupert  sat  down  beside  Geraldine  with  a  rather 
blushing  face.  Even  now  he  had  no  sense  of  anti- 
climax, he  knew  he  must  have  just  a  little  more 
patience  until  they  were  alone,  and  it  was  easy  to 
endure  in  her  presence.  There  was  a  little  general 
conversation,  enough  to  reveal  that  Rupert  and  the 
two  other  men  had  nothing  to  say  to  one  another. 
Presently  Lord  Fastnet  and  Father  Byrne  went  out 
together;  Rupert  accepted  their  departure  as  a  sub- 
mission to  his  own  masterful  necessity,  and  realized 
that  his  moment  had  come. 

He  brought  a  chair  and  placed  it  so  that  he  sat 
close  to  Geraldine  and  facing  her.  His  boyish  dif- 
fidence was  a  thing  of  the  past;  he  spoke  quietly, 
firmly,  with  conviction. 

"  Lady  Fastnet,"  he  began  quietly,  "  a  great  many 
things  have  happened  to  me  since  I  saw  you.  I've 
realized  that  what  you  said  was  true.  I  believe  I 
am  going  to  be  great,  but  I  won't  be  great  except  for 
you  and  through  you.  I've  come  to  you." 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  115 

She  looked  a  little  surprisedly  at  him,  but  there 
was  pleasure  in  her  surprise.  He  did  not  notice  the 
surprise,  but  he  saw  the  pleasure,  for  which  his  soul 
was  thirsting.  "  Oh,  Rupert,"  she  said,  smiling  at 
him,  "  how  glad  I  am !  But  how  shall  I  deserve 
it?" 

"  You  deserve  everything.  There  is  nothing  that 
I  can  do  —  any  one  in  the  world  can  do  —  that  you 
don't  deserve.  You  deserve  it  because  you  are  good 
and  brave  and  true-hearted,  because  you  are  the  most 
beautiful  thing  in  the  world,  and  only  the  best  of 
anything  is  worth  offering  to  you." 

The  steady  fire  in  his  eyes  —  not  the  fire  of  ele- 
mentary passion  so  much  as  the  burning  light  of 
conviction  and  intense  purpose  —  sent  a  qualm  of 
warning  over  her.  Still  she  held  on  to  the  pleasure 
his  words  gave  her,  answering  tremulously,  "  Am  I 
really  all  that  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  all  that,  more  than  that.  Listen :  I 
think  you  heard  —  I've  been  very  ill.  Something 
happened  —  snapped  in  me  —  while  I  was  ill.  All 
the  unimportant  things  fell  away.  Life  has  a  rea- 
son ;  I  know  it  now.  Do  you  know  what  that  reason 
is  ?  You  —  you  are  the  reason  of  my  life.  You 
first  told  me  I  might  be  great;  I  am  going  to  be 
great,  and  you  are  going  to  be  glad  and  proud  of 
me!" 

He  took  her  two  hands  in  his;  gravely  but  very 
earnestly  he  looked  into  her  face  with  eyes  shining 
steadily  to  meet  hers. 


116  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

"  I  love  you,  love  you,  love  you,  and  you  must  love 
me  and  believe  in  me !  " 

At  his  first  word  her  eyes  fell  from  his.  She  with- 
drew her  hands  and  sat  looking  down  for  a  minute 
in  silence. 

He  waited. 

"  Rupert,  listen  to  me.  I  do  believe  in  you ;  I 
do  look  for  great  things  from  you.  I  am  glad  you 
will  do  them  for  me  —  in  a  sense.  And  always  I 
will  be  your  friend. " 

A  sensation  of  chill,  the  dreadest  thing  he  had  ever 
felt,  crept  into  his  heart.  It  was  very  faint,  very 
subtle;  he  did  not  understand  it,  he  only  felt  that 
there  was  danger  and  death  in  it.  But  he  was  of 
high  mettle,  drew  himself  together,  and  grew  more 
collected  in  presence  of  the  danger. 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  he  said,  speaking  even 
more  slowly  and  quietly  than  before,  "  I  know,  I 
am  sure  of  that  —  my  friend  always.  But  you  are 
much  more  than  that."  The  calm  in  his  voice  broke, 
and  a  storm  of  passionate  feeling  rolled  up,  deepen- 
ing his  tones,  making  his  body  tremble,  veiling  his 
eyes  in  sudden  mist.  "  Love,  I  must  have  your 
love!  You  have  all  mine  —  all  my  thoughts,  all 
my  life!" 

Geraldine  stopped  him  with  a  gesture.  "  You 
must  not  talk  of  love;  I  can't  give  you  my  love. 
I  am  married,  and  all  the  love  I  have  to  give  belongs 
to  my  husband." 

Her  words  seemed  even  to  herself  unreal  and  in- 
sufficient at  the  moment  —  one  of  those  difficult, 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  H7 

crucial  moments  when  even  the  things  we  mean  do 
not  ring  quite  true.  And  she  was  thoroughly  in 
earnest,  although  she  had  no  better  words.  Rupert 
saw,  not  her  earnestness,  but  her  dispassionate  and 
collected  air.  The  storm-clouds  broke  and  swept 
over  him  in  a  passion  of  feeling. 

"  Oh,  I  know,  I  know.  I  don't  want  the  love  you 
give  your  husband.  You  and  he  are  one  thing,  but 
you  and  I  are  another.  You  found  me  out  when 
I  wasn't  even  aware  that  I  existed  —  there  would 
have  been  nothing  of  me,  but  for  you.  Don't  you 
see ;  can't  you  see  —  I  mean,  that  when  two  people 
understand  like  that,  it  is  love  ?  I  know  it,  every 
hour  of  the  day  and  night.  I  don't  expect  that  other 
love,"  he  went  on  desperately,  not  noticing  her  hand 
laid  restrainingly  on  his  arm,  refusing  to  read  the 
mingled  fear  and  trouble  in  her  face,  and  seeing  only 
that  she  was  trying  not  to  listen  to  him  with  her 
inner  ear.  "  I  don't  expect  it."  He  smiled  bravely. 
"  You  can't  love  me  like  that ;  I'm  not  like  you, 
wonderful  and  lovable;  but  oh,  darling,  such  as  I 
am,  all  that  I  will  ever  be,  you  made !  And 
when  —  " 

As  she  felt  the  rising  strength  of  his  passion,  and 
found  in  herself  nothing  able  to  oppose  it,  she  re- 
membered her  religion.  The  look  that  came  into 
her  eyes  then,  so  alien,  so  friendless  to  his  appeal, 
stopped  him  dead  in  the  midst  of  it.  She  seemed  to 
Rupert  like  a  stranger,  so  different  from  the  warm 
smiling  reality  of  the  lady  of  his  dreams,  that  he  felt 
as  though  he  had  been  appealing  to  an  indifferent 


118  WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS 

portrait  or  statue  of  her,  and  that  she  herself  was 
somewhere  far  away. 

Nor  was  the  chilled  voice  in  which  she  now  spoke 
the  voice  of  his  beloved. 

"  '  All  that  you  will  be,'  you  say.  You  will  be  a 
great  man,  but  you  can  only  found  greatness  on 
beautiful  and  pure  things.  What  you  are  saying 
is  wrong  and  wicked.  I  did  not  make  you,  Rupert; 
you  speak  as  though  there  were  nothing  in  the  world 
but  human  power  and  human  laws.  But  the  laws 
of  God  are  above  human  laws.  Oh,  I  know  you  are 
a  Protestant,  and  don't  understand  how  real  these 
things  are  to  us.  But  they  are  true." 

Rupert  was  silent,  looking  no  longer  at  her,  but 
beyond  her.  She  went  on  talking,  relieved  at  the 
successful  effect  of  the  moral  cold  douche,  and  anx- 
ious to  give  Rupert  time  to  recover.  Everything 
she  said  was  sweet  and  kind  and  pure  and  good  and 
safe  and  sensible  and  prudent  and  gentle  and  def- 
inite, and  almost  entirely  quoted  from  a  higher  au- 
thority; but  he  hardly  heard  what  she  said.  He 
was  saying  dumbly  to  himself,  "  Oh,  for  yesterday, 
for  yesterday !  "  He  was  so  ashamed  and  humili- 
ated that  he  did  not  say  the  "  forgive  me  "  which 
Geraldine  expected. 

And  when  she  finished  her  homily  with  a  grasp 
of  his  hand,  and  "  Now,  Rupert  dear,  you  must  go," 
he  simply  turned  and  went  away  without  even  a 
good-bye. 

•  ••  ••••*• 

He  was  walking  blindly  along  in  the  glare  of 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  119 

Sackville  Street,  when  he  heard  a  voice  behind  him 
saying,  "  The  voice  is  Jacob's  voice,  but  the  hands 
are  the  hands  of  Esau."  Something  familiar  in  the 
clear  drawling  tones  arrested  him,  and  he  turned  to 
look  at  the  speaker  —  a  young  man  with  brown  hair 
and  a  smiling,  clean-shaven  face. 

"  Why,  Tommy  Blake  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I'm  right  after  all,  it  seems.  The  hair  was  the 
hair  of  Rupert,  but  the  walk  was  Methuselah's  own, 
so  I  tried  my  voice  on  you.  Where  did  you  drop 
from?  And  where  are  you  going,  may  one  ask? 
To  an  execution,  or  only  to  a  funeral  ?  " 

Rupert's  wave  of  curiosity  in  recognizing  an  old 
schoolfellow  had  passed  the  moment  it  was  satisfied, 
and  his  one  desire  was  to  be  alone  again. 

"  I'm  awfully  sorry,  I'm  hurrying  off  to  see  some 
one ;  can't  stop  now.  Let's  meet  to-morrow." 

The  wide  eyes  of  Mr.  Blake  searched  his  face 
calmly.  "  Are  you  shamming,  now,  or  only  drunk  ? 
If  you  think  I'm  going  to  leave  you  until  I've  found 
that  out,  you're  very  much  mistaken,  my  boy.  Di- 
ning out,  are  you  ?  Well  I'm  not,  so  I'll  come  with 
you.  Very  busy,  is  it?  Well  I've  nothing  to  do, 
so  you  won't  be  hindering  me." 

"  No ;  I  wasn't  dining  out,  after  all,"  said  Ru- 
pert. 

"  Of  course  you  weren't,  but  I  am  —  I'm  dining 
with  you  at  the  Shelbourne.  We're  going  in  the 
wrong  direction;  that's  better.  Don't  say  you 
haven't  asked  me  —  it  isn't  necessary." 

Rupert  had  still  some  power  to  resist,  but  he  had 


120  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

no  power  to  repel  or  turn  away  this  friendly  creature 
who  merely  insisted  on  fastening  on  to  him.  The 
clear  eyes  of  Tommy  Blake,  indeed,  saw  that  there 
was  something  obviously  amiss,  and  native  instinct 
showed  him  the  only  way  to  be  of  use.  He  was  a 
year  older  than  Rupert,  and  took  a  romantic  view 
of  the  duties  of  friendship.  He  was  reading  for  the 
bar,  and  writing  for  posterity,  he  said ;  and  certainly 
there  was  no  great  demand  for  his  poems  among  his 
contemporaries. 

He  rattled  and  prattled  away  to  Rupert,  ignoring 
his  silence,  ordering  dinner  with  decision  and  eat- 
ing it  with  appetite.  Rupert  drank  wine  and  ate 
nothing;  the  alcohol  seemed  to  have  no  effect  upon 
him  except  to  steady  his  shaking  nerves.  Blake  did 
all  the  talking,  but  he  found  out  that  Rupert  had 
been  spending  his  time  in  drawing,  and  after  dinner 
he  made  him  produce  his  portfolio. 

"  By  Jove,"  he  said,  as  he  turned  over  some  of 
the  later  drawings,  "  I  know  a  man  who'd  go  mad 
over  this!  Look  here."  He  pulled  out  his  watch. 
"  It's  past  nine.  Do  you  know  Edmund  Heath  ?  " 
mentioning  a  famous  novelist  of  the  realistic  school. 
"  No ;  all  the  better ;  he  won't  dislike  you  so  much. 
We'll  go  there  and  meet  Greer  and  one  or  two  other 
men  who  are  sure  to  be  interested,  and  you'll  like 
them.  Come  along;  it's  only  talk  and  tobacco  and 
whisky.  Be  miserable  and  grumpy  just  like  you 
are  now,  and  you'll  have  no  end  of  a  success  with 
the  Celtic  gang.  We'll  take  these  things  with  us." 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  121 

Rupert  was  in  a  dream;  a  small  part  of  his  con- 
sciousness governed  his  speech  and  actions,  submit- 
ting with  foolish  easiness  to  the  leadership  of 
Tommy  Blake;  the  rest  inhabited  a  world  of  shad- 
ows amid  brushing  wings  of  memory  whose  every 
touch  was  a  mortification.  And  yet  it  was  agony 
to  be  brought  back  to  consciousness  and  the  necessity 
for  speech,  and  relief  to  sink  back  into  the  semi- 
oblivion  of  misery,  in  which  Blake's  voice  dwindled 
away  to  a  far-away  whisper,  and  a  curtain  of  blind- 
ness and  forgetfulness  hid  the  outside  world  from 
him.  He  awoke  from  one  of  these  intervals  to  find 
himself  standing  in  a  room  filled  with  a  blue  cloud 
of  tobacco  smoke  in  which  floated  a  dozen  strange 
faces.  He  heard  himself  replying  to  the  languid 
words  of  welcome  uttered  by  Heath  —  a  sad,  middle- 
aged  man  with  a  suave  distinguished  manner.  His 
long  face  was  soft  like  a  child's,  and  a  grey  mous- 
tache drooped  over  his  mouth.  A  few  names,  some 
familiar  to  Rupert  and  some  unknown,  were  pro- 
nounced with  his  own,  and  he  found  himself  trying 
to  distinguish  the  owners  of  them  from  among  the 
group  of  faces,  some  pale,  some  shaggy,  some  caver- 
nous and  wasted-looking,  that  hung  in  the  haze  of 
smoke;  but  he  could  not  identify  them,  and  having 
become  detached  from  Blake  sat  down  in  a  place 
vacant  near  Heath. 

"  You  are  just  in  time,"  said  the  melancholy  real- 
ist. "  O'Donnell  is  going  to  read  us  a  poem  about 
a  seal."  His  voice  had  an  expressive  range  of  tones 
which  he  accompanied  by  a  waving  emphasis  of  the 


122  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

hands;  and  he  articulated  unimportant  prepositions 
and  articles  with  the  distinctness  of  a  foreigner.  "  I 
do  not  know,"  he  continued,  his  voice  descending  the 
scale,  "  why  any  one  should  write  a  poem  about  a 
seal;  to  draw  a  seal  —  yes;  hut  a  seal  either  is  a 
poem  already  or  it  is  nothing  at  all.  I  am  sure  you 
agree  with  me  ?  "  He  turned  to  Rupert. 

"  Yes,"  said  Rupert,  taking  up  the  vein,  "  of 
course.  But  probably  the  poem  is  really  more  im- 
portant than  any  number  of  living  seals;  in  that 
case,  what  does  it  matter  ?  " 

"  Oh,  well/'  said  Heath,  "  there  is  always  that 
point  of  view.  Perhaps,  when  we  have  heard  the 
poem  — "  he  shrugged  his  shoulders.  No  one 
minded  him,  least  of  all  O'Donnell,  who  listened  to 
the  melodious  nonsense  he  talked  for  the  occasional 
fountain  of  wisdom  that  welled  up  in  the  midst  of  it. 

Presently  the  poet  began  to  read  in  a  dreamy 
monotonous  voice,  "  The  Seal  of  Inishvhan."  He 
sat  crumpled  up  in  his  chair,  his  dark  eyes  glowing 
in  his  pale  thin  face  beneath  a  tangle  of  dark  hair. 
Every  one,  Rupert  no  less  than  the  others,  fell  im- 
mediately under  the  spell  of  the  voice.  Edmund 
Heath  had  forced  his  face  into  an  expression  of  po- 
lite, vacant  boredom  and  endurance,  and  it  was 
strange  to  see  his  attempts  to  suppress  the  interest 
that  the  poem  roused,  and  the  very  gradual  change 
of  expression  from  vacuity  to  beaming  appreciation. 

O'Donnell  read  on,  like  a  wizard  weaving  a 
charm.  The  dreamy  tones,  the  music  of  the  richly 
assonant  words,  the  freshness  and  remoteness  of  the 


WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS  123 

ideas  that  conjured  up  a  faery  world  seen  dimly 
through  a  veil  of  sea-spray  sank  into  Rupert's  soul. 
The  golden  poetry  flowed  like  a  healing  balm  over 
his  wounded  consciousness,  and  quickened  the  artist 
to  masterful  assertion.  He  was  conscious  of  a  great 
impulse  to  do  something,  once  and  for  all,  that  would 
recover  him  from  his  humiliation  of  soul.  In  some- 
thing tremendous  he  had  failed,  or  the  world  had 
failed  him;  in  something  tremendous  he  could  still 
conquer.  He  knew  it ;  he  no  longer  heard  the  words 
of  the  poem,  but  only  the  music  of  the  voice,  now 
falling  into  long  penultimate  cadences.  A  scene  in 
the  legend  had  composed  itself  as  a  picture  in  his 
mind  —  the  drowned  woman's  hair  streaming  and 
straying  over  the  water,  and  the  line  of  seals  head- 
ing out  to  the  open  sea.  The  voice  came  to  an  end, 
and  the  chorus  of  comment  broke  out.  One  shaggy 
Celt  was  in  tears;  every  one  was  affected  more  or 
less  deeply  in  his  own  way,  and  was  giving  expres- 
sion to  his  feelings  when  Rupert  said  bluntly,  ad- 
dressing no  one  in  particular : 

"  I  could  draw  that." 

There  was  an  immediate  silence;  some  of  them 
were  inclined  to  regard  the  remark  of  the  well- 
dressed,  good-looking  youth  as  mere  folly  or  imperti- 
nence; but  there  was  something  in  his  tones  and  in 
his  face  that  spoke  directly  to  the  intelligence  of 
that  unusually  intelligent  and  sympathetic  group. 
Rupert's  head  was  thrown  back  a  little,  and  his 
ruddy  hair  had  fallen  away  from  his  forehead,  re- 
vealing its  breadth  and  the  new  lines  of  concentra- 


124  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

tion  in  it,  and  adding  significance  to  the  strength 
of  the  finely  modelled  face  and  square  chin.  O'Don- 
nell  looked  up  at  him  with  a  glint  of  understanding 
in  his  dark  eyes,  but  Heath  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  My  friend,"  he  said,  "  you  are  a  genius. 
O'Donnell's  poem  was  a  great  thing,  a  beautiful 
thing,  but  that  remark  of  yours  is  a  greater  thing 
still.  It  is  splendid,  it  is  wonderful;  we  have  all 
said  something  about  the  poem,  but  you  have  said 
the  only  thing.  There  is  nothing  more  to  be  said. 
It  is  like  the  lifting  of  the  brush  off  a  Corot;  any 
one  can  lay  his  brush  on  a  canvas,  but  only  a  master 
can  lift  it  off." 

When  Heath  talked  like  this  he  had  the  art  of 
making  his  hearer  believe  that  what  he  said  was  the 
merest  common-sense.  Rupert  had  never  been  talked 
to  like  that  before,  and  he  liked  it,  and  thought  Heath 
a  great  man  —  as  indeed  he  was,  but  not  because  of 
what  he  said.  O'Donnell  had  come  across  to  Rupert, 
and  some  of  the  other  men  were  gathered  round  him, 
urging  him  to  draw  something  then  and  there  if  the 
mood  was  really  upon  him;  and  Blake,  immensely 
pleased  with  the  success  of  his  friend,  was  rumma- 
ging about  in  Heath's  desk  for  a  sheet  of  card-board. 

"  Of  course  he  will  go  and  spoil  it  all  by  drawing 
something,"  said  Heath.  "  To  say  '  I  can  draw 
that '  was  wonderful,  but  to  go  and  do  it  is  like  mar- 
rying a  woman  you  have  fallen  in  love  with.  It 
is  impossible  to  prolong  a  moment." 

But  Rupert  was  in  the  hands  of  the  younger  men, 
and  of  his  own  impulse;  and  presently  he  was  es- 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  125 

tablished  in  a  lamplit  corner  by  himself,  working 
rapidly,  almost  feverishly,  and  yet  with  a  perfect 
facility  and  certainty  that  he  had  never  known  be- 
fore. The  voices  of  the  other  men  fell  away  from 
his  consciousness,  or  sounded  only  like  a  far-away 
murmur.  He  did  not  know  that  they  liad  divided 
into  two  groups  —  a  few  men  gathered  round  Heath, 
who  affected  to  be  no  more  interested  in  Rupert  now 
that  he  was  actually  drawing,  and  who  was  holding 
forth  about  Bach's  fugues,  which  he  did  not  under- 
stand; and  a  larger  group  scanning  the  bundle  of 
Rupert's  drawings  that  Blake,  with  the  forethought 
of  a  wise  showman,  had  brought  with  him. 

Greer,  the  art  critic,  who  had  held  rather  aloof 
from  Rupert  himself,  was  deeply  interested  in  the 
work  in  the  portfolio.  He  laughed  to  himself  with 
pleasure,  and  frowned  as  the  puzzle  of  Rupert's  tal- 
ent baffled  and  eluded  him.  "  It's  so  beastly  good," 
he  said  to  another  man,  "  but  it's  all  wrong  —  there's 
only  a  small  thing  that's  wrong,  but  it  runs  through 
everything." 

"  Too  literary,"  said  the  other  man. 

"  Oh,  of  course ;  but  that's  nothing.  Just  look, 
I  ask  you,  at  the  line  of  that  coat ;  fancy  making  a 
dress-coat  say  all  those  unutterable  things!  Is  it 
all  in  the  line  ?  " 

"  His  brain  keeps  getting  in  the  way,"  said  the 
other  man ;  "  if  only  he'd  left  that  alone,  and  cut 
out  all  this  chattering  work  in  the  foreground  — 
but  how  good !  " 

Greer  turned  to  Blake.     "  This  is  a  big  thing, 


126  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

Tommy.  Where  does  he  come  from  at  all  ?  And 
why  has  he  never  learned  to  draw  ?  And  how  in 
the  world  does  he  know  without  learning?  For 
though  he  has  obviously  never  learned,  he  can  teach 
us  all  a  good  deal  about  drawing.  And  what  bad 
breaks  he  makes!  look  what  a  howler  he  has  come 
over  this." 

"  Remember,  he's  lived  alone  since  he  left  school 
—  has  a  place  somewhere  in  the  North.  I  don't 
suppose  he  has  any  one  to  show  his  work  to,  or  ever 
sees  much  other  work.  Wouldn't  that  account  for 
it?" 

"  Yes,  perhaps  it  would.  It  makes  it  all  the  more 
remarkable  though.  Fancy  digging  all  these  won- 
ders out  of  his  own  imagination.  My  God !  " 
Greer's  face  grew  solemn ;  "  think  what  he'll  be 
when  he's  seen  things.  At  present  he  thinks  there 
are  only  three  things  in  the  world  —  drawing,  the 
sea,  and  some  woman.  Just  think  when  he  finds  out 
that  there  is  painting." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  O'Donnell,  "  will  it  not  spoil 
his  purity  of  vision?  Does  a  man  who  sees  lines 
like  those  want  to  be  bothered  with  colour  ?  Won't 
it  only  confuse  him?  All  he  wants  is  paper  and 
pencil  and  the  wide  world." 

"  Yes,  the  wide  world,'*  said  Greer,  smiling ;  and 
they  returned  to  a  discussion  of  the  drawings  in 
detail. 

It  was  less  than  an  hour  after  he  had  begun  to 
work  when  Rupert  got  up  and  joined  the  others. 


WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS  127 

"  I'm  thirsty,"  he  said ;  "  will  some  one  give  me  a 
drink,  please  ? " 

"  Finished  ?  "  asked  Greer. 

"  Yes,"  said  Rupert,  "  there  it  is.  It's  a  good 
thing.  I  owe  it  to  you,  O'Donnell ;  take  it,  please." 

He  handed  over  the  drawing,  and  every  one  in 
the  room  gathered  round  to  look  at  it. 

"  It  is  very  nice,"  said  Heath,  with  a  compromise 
between  his  two  manners.  "  Naturally,  a  man  who 
could  say  that  could  draw  it  —  still,  one  should 
leave  some  things  unsaid.  No  one  can  really  say  a 
thing  if  he  thinks  it." 

Rupert  stood  awkwardly  for  a  moment  looking  at 
the  group  bent  over  his  work.  The  excitement  of 
doing  it  had  evaporated;  the  weight  of  lead  hung 
round  his  heart  again.  Then  he  said  brusquely, 
"  I'm  going.  Good-night."  And  he  turned  to  the 
door. 

There  was  a  murmur  of  remonstrance,  and 
Tommy  Blake  jumped  up.  "  No,  Tommy,  please ; 
I  won't  disturb  you." 

"  But  what  about  your  drawings  ?  " 

"  Oh,  keep  them  —  burn  them ;  do  anything  you 
like  with  them !  Good-night."  The  door  shut  be- 
hind him,  and  the  outer  street  door  had  also  shut 
before  the  company  had  recovered  from  the  surprise 
of  his  abrupt  adieu. 

"  Queer  fellow,"  said  Greer,  turning  to  the  draw- 
ing ;  "  but  look  at  this ;  it  is  pure  genius  from  the 
first  line  to  the  last ;  it  is  right  where  all  the  others 
are  wrong.  We've  made  a  discovery  to-night. 


128  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

You're  right,  Heath ;  he's  a  genius.  The  world  will 
be  talking  about  him  in  a  year." 

"  And  doesn't  he  know  it,  too  ? "  said  a  little  fair 
man,  a  journalist  "  Did  you  hear  the  way  he  said, 
*  this  is  a  good  thing '  ?  " 

"  That's  where  he's  great,"  said  Greer ;  "  he 
knows." 

"  He  certainly  has  his  feet  on  some  road  or  other," 
said  another  man ;  "  but  I  wonder  what  road  ?  " 

"  Does  it  matter  ? "  asked  Heath  sadly  with  a 
slow  wave  of  his  hand.  "  Whatever  road  he's  on, 
he  will  get  to  the  end  of  it  and  spoil  it  all." 

O'Donnell  shook  his  head,  looking  deep  into  the 
fire.  "  The  roads  are  the  only  things  that  are  end- 
less," he  said. 


BOOK  II 


129 


THE  shadows  lengthened  to  the  golden  close  of  a 
London  summer's  day,  and  still  the  artist  stood 
working  at  his  tablo  by  the  window,  and  still  the 
model,  whom  he  had  hardly  glanced  at  twice  in  the 
last  half -hour,  posed  over  the  big  mirror  on  the  floor, 
looking  into  an  imaginary  pool.  At  last,  with  his 
head  turned  over  his  shoulder,  he  uttered  the  wel- 
come words,  "  That  will  do ;  run  away  and  dress ;  " 
and  while  the  anaemic  young  woman  relaxed  her 
tired  limbs  and  disappeared  into  the  ante-room  he 
busied  himself  with  a  few  finishing  touches. 

A  man-servant  came  in  and  silently  began  to  tidy 
the  room,  lifting  the  great  sheet  of  glass  to  its  place 
against  the  wall,  folding  up  and  putting  away  the 
two  or  three  pieces  of  old  brocade  that  had  been  hung 
over  chairs.  Rupert  looked  critically  into  his  fin- 
ished work,  altered  the  length  of  a  line,  looked  again, 
added  about  fifty  dots  of  infinite  smallness  to  an 
elaborate  tracery,  and  then  put  down  his  pen,  throw- 
ing out  his  arms  and  straightening  his  back  from  its 
stooping  posture. 

He  was  still  the  same  Rupert  of  five  years  ago, 
and  yet  not  the  same.  Without  losing  its  slimness 
his  frame  seemed  to  have  become  more  closely  knit. 

131 


132  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

The  ruddy  hair  lay  as  thick  as  ever  over  the  broad 
brow,  but  it  was  more  carefully  groomed.  The  eyes 
were  still  merry  and  clear  in  their  greyness,  but  the 
mouth,  if  it  still  held  the  suggestion  of  sadness,  was 
a  little  firmer,  and  the  line  of  the  jaw  stronger  and 
fuller.  He  was  carefully,  even  fastidiously  dressed, 
and  his  firm  hands,  no  longer  the  hands  of  a  yachts- 
man, but  of  an  artist,  were  scrupulously  cared  for. 
In  these  respects  his  body  might  have  been  the  body 
of  an  athletic  dandy,  if  it  had  not  been  dominated 
by  the  powerful  personality  of  the  head  —  the  head 
of  a  master. 

He  turned  to  the  man.  "  You  can  get  the  room 
ready,  Hicks  —  twelve  for  dinner.  You'd  better 
open  half-a-dozen  bottles  of  the  Leoville,  and  have 
a  few  more  in  case  they  are  wanted." 

"  Very  good,  sir.  What  about  flowers  —  did  you 
order  any,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  forgot  all  about  them.  I'll  go  out  now  and 
get  them  myself  —  and  have  my  bath  ready  when 
I  come  in,  will  you?  And  pay  the  model  if  she 
hasn't  gone." 

He  ran  downstairs,  took  his  hat  and  stick,  and 
stepped  out  into  the  street.  It  was  characteristic  of 
him  that  when  he  came  to  London  he  had  settled  in 
St.  James's  rather  than  in  Chelsea  or  Hampstead; 
and  his  flat,  at  the  top  of  an  old  house  wedged  be- 
tween that  of  an  Ambassador  and  an  official  of  the 
Royal  household,  looked  out  across  the  green  park 
and  towards  the  dusty  sunset  skies  of  Pimlico. 

A  few  steps  brought  him  into  St.  James's  Street, 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  133 

and  he  walked  rapidly  up  the  broad  thoroughfare, 
now  beginning  to  show  signs  of  preparation  for  so- 
ciability after  its  day  of  reserve.  He  turned  into 
a  Piccadilly  florist's,  and  there  bought  a  great  bunch 
of  deep  crimson  roses  which  he  carried  back  in  his 
hand  —  an  agreeable  spot  of  colour  moving  down  the 
solemn  greyness  of  St.  James's  Street. 

When  he  returned  the  long  table  was  already  laid 
in  his  beautiful  room,  whose  still  grey  walls  were 
receding  into  the  dark,  leaving  the  table,  which  he 
himself  adorned  with  its  glowing  load  of  roses,  iso- 
lated in  the  centre  of  the  room,  like  an  altar  prepared 
for  sacrifice.  And  it  was  the  old  Rupert  of  the  Ab- 
bacy who  glanced  carefully  over  the  table  and  side- 
board to  see  that  nothing  had  been  forgotten  and 
that  no  lack  of  care  on  his  part  should  mar  his  hos- 
pitality. Then  he  went  to  dress. 

It  was  no  chance  collection  of  acquaintances  that 
gathered  round  Rupert  Savage's  table  that  night, 
but  a  group  of  artists  and  men  of  letters  who  had 
achieved  what  was,  for  the  moment,  practically  a 
monopoly  of  the  arts.  They  were  diverse  in  their 
genius,  divided  and  dissentient  sometimes  among 
themselves;  but  to  the  London  of  the  day  they  of- 
fered a  solid  front  of  brilliant  and  aggressive  talent. 
By  their  literature,  their  drawings  and  paintings 
founded  on  literature,  their  criticism,  their  plays, 
their  affectations  even  —  for  every  clique  has  its 
affectations  —  they  dominated  London,  interested 
Paris  and  Munich,  and  set  America  by  the  ears. 


134  WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS 

There  was  a  kind  of  joyous  sense  of  greatness  and 
mastery  among  them  that  made  them  great  and  mas- 
terful; they  went  their  own  way,  secure  in  the  ap- 
probation and  backing  of  each  other,  and  by  no 
means  unwilling  to  carry  their  tendencies  to  ex- 
tremes pour  epater  le  bourgeois.  They  met  at  one  an- 
other's houses,  admired  and  criticized  one  another's 
work,  had  their  feuds  and  jealousies  among  them- 
selves, but  loyally  upheld  each  other's  reputation 
before  the  world.  They  represented  a  reaction 
against  the  neglect  of  manner  which  characterized 
English  art  in  the  day  before  theirs,  and  their  own 
success  was  virtually  the  triumph  of  manner  over 
matter. 

The  twelve  who  were  met  round  the  table  to-night 
by  no  means  represented  the  whole  of  this  group, 
but  they  were  its  chief  spirits.  The  secret  of  their 
influence  lay  in  a  blend  of  personality  and  crafts- 
manship, and  a  genuine  knowledge  of  and  belief  in 
themselves.  "  Greatness  "  was  a  word  continually 
on  their  lips :  "  I  am  great,  you  are  great,  we  are 
great,"  they  cried;  and  not  unnaturally  the  world 
completed  the  conjugation  by  saying,  "  They  are 
great." 

The  two  leaders  of  the  movement,  if  movement 
that  could  be  called  which  rested  so  securely  on  the 
assumption  of  its  own  Tightness,  were  Rupert  Sav- 
age and  Cyril  Midwood.  It  was  Rupert's  sudden 
success  two  years  ago  that  had  given  new  life  to  the 
work  of  the  other  men,  and  strengthened  their  power 
and  influence.  In  the  small  intelligent  world  which 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  135 

cares  for  such  things  there  was  something  like  a 
furore  over  his  strange,  imaginative,  and  exquisitely 
beautiful  drawings.  They  became  the  rage ;  his  per- 
sonality completed  his  success,  which  had  been  al- 
most instantaneous,  and  in  two  years  brought  him 
money,  fame,  position,  adulation  —  almost  every- 
thing that  youth  can  dream  of.  It  was  thus  that  he 
almost  displaced  Midwood,  the  former  leader  of  the 
group  who  had  been  one  of  the  first  to  recognize 
Rupert's  genius,  and  whose  own  work,  which  in  lit- 
erature had  something  of  the  fantastic  delicacy  of 
Rupert's  in  drawing,  had  for  some  years  been  rec- 
ognized as  the  real  soul  and  spirit  of  the  neo-erotic 
movement. 

He  sat  near  Rupert  now,  and  in  great  physical 
contrast  with  him.  He  was  at  least  ten  years  older ; 
he  was  thin  and  stooping,  with  dark  melancholy  eyes, 
and  a  cadaverous  and  not  altogether  attractive  face. 
"  Red  roses  and  red  wine,"  he  was  saying ;  "  you 
always  match  your  flowers  with  the  colour  of  your 
wine,  Rupert ;  how  wise  and  right  that  is !  But  you 
are  always  wise  and  always  right,"  he  added,  raising 
his  glass  with  a  little  melancholy  bow. 

Greer,  the  critic,  whom  Rupert  had  met  in  Dub- 
lin five  years  before,  grumbled  in  his  beard,  "  You 
fellows  will  be  matching  your  food  with  the  colour 
of  your  eyes  next,"  he  said. 

"  We  will  hope  not,  Greer,  for  the  sake  of  your 
eyes,"  said  Bowen,  a  little  keen-faced  man  with  big 
spectacles  whose  chalk  drawings  of  East-end  school 


136  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

children  had  been  the  sensation  of  last  season.  His 
weakness  was  his  wit,  which  was  always  leading  him 
to  say  things  which  no  one  quite  understood,  but 
which  every  one  laughed  at. 

"  It  is  merely  a  question  of  style,"  said  Winstan- 
ley,  the  dramatist ;  "  if  a  man  has  that  sense,  he  can't 
help  showing  it  in  everything  he  does.  It  would  be 
impossible  for  Midwood  to  use  an  unrelated  parti- 
ciple or  a  split  infinitive  —  not  because  it  would 
be  wrong  —  but  because  it  would  be  disagreeable. 
It  would  hurt  him.  But  it  wouldn't  hurt  Jeyne 
there,"  nodding  at  a  shaggy  giant  sitting  beside 
Bowen,  "  because  he's  that  horrible  thing,  a  Social- 
ist, and  because  he  hasn't  got  that  particular  sense. 
Rupert  sees  a  harmony  between  wine  and  flowers  — 
and  for  ever  afterwards  it  would  be  painful  to  him 
to  violate  that  delicate  harmony  by  introducing  a 
quarrel  in  colour.  Style  is  so  much  more  important 
than  you  think,  Greer." 

"  I  sometimes  wonder  if  it  isn't  a  little  less  im- 
portant than  you  think,"  said  Greer. 

"  It  is  everything,"  said  Midwood ;  "  there  is 
nothing  without  it  but  chaos  and  ugliness.  The 
naked  world  is  a  horrible  place;  its  ideas  are  hor- 
rible, unless  you  clothe  them  in  a  beautiful  garment 
of  manner,  and  a  ritual  of  style;  just  as  a  naked 
woman  is  an  abominably  ugly  object,  and  has  to  be 
disguised  in  beautiful  trailing  fabrics  and  remod- 
elled into  long  flowing  lines  by  her  clothes." 

The  talk  strayed  along  thus  from  one  topic  to 
another,  with  that  perfect  license  and  freedom  from 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  137 

the  fear  of  being  wrong  that  marks  the  conversation 
of  the  successful.  And  just  because  every  one  felt 
that  nothing  he  could  think  or  say  could  be  unim- 
portant or  uninteresting,  the  talk  was  interesting 
in  its  own  hour  and  place.  When  they  thus  talked 
together,  these  men  felt  inches  taller ;  their  meetings 
were  a  wellspring  of  that  adorable  vanity  that  haunts 
the  artist's  mind  and  fills  the  world  with  beautiful 
things ;  each  man  went  forth  from  them,  like  a  lover 
from  the  arms  of  his  beloved,  with  his  sense  of  great- 
ness renewed  and  his  sense  of  Tightness  deepened. 

They  represented  many  arts,  and  covered  among 
them  a  great  range  of  craftsmanship.  There  was 
Marston  the  novelist,  who  imported  the  clarity  and 
vivacity  and  realism  of  French  fiction  into  a  body 
of  brave  and  penetrating  intellect;  there  was  Sibley, 
the  real  heir  of  the  first  Impressionists,  who  painted 
in  the  true  happy  spirit  of  beauty,  and  whose  pic- 
tures were  therefore  being  bought  cheaply  by  the 
wise  Jews,  who  stored  them  in  cellars  until  their 
hour  should  come.  Sibley  looked  anything  between 
twenty  and  fifty;  he  was  fair  and  kind  and  tired. 
He  devoted  his  life  to  work,  and  talked  like  a  liber- 
tine. There  was  Cadman,  who  was  almost  always 
drunk,  always  gentle  and  egotistical,  and  whose 
enamel  work  was  the  most  wonderful  thing  of  its 
kind  in  Europe;  there  was  Jeyne,  the  clever  So- 
cialist and  intellectual  revolutionary;  and  there  was 
Charlie  Reid,  the  most  lovable  man  in  London,  who 
devoted  his  life  as  a  journalist  to  the  praise  of  the 
group  he  worshipped. 


138  WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS 

There  were  two  others,  guests,  not  really  subjects, 
of  Rupert's  kingdom,  but  like  all  intelligent  men 
of  the  day,  deeply  interested  in  it  and  glad  to  meet 
its  great  men.  One  was  Gaston  St.  Paul,  a  French 
composer  and  a  man  of  powerful  intellectual  indi- 
viduality who  had  been  conducting  a  concert  of  his 
works  in  London,  and  who  had  been  enthusiastically 
welcomed  by  the  Twelve  as  one  of  themselves.  The 
other  was  Caird,  a  middle-aged  Scotsman  who  was 
grimly  ensconced  somewhere  in  the  British  Museum, 
where  he  nourished  an  infinite  scorn  of  the  men  and 
institutions  about  him,  but  who  liked  Rupert.  These 
two  listened  more  than  they  talked  —  the  French- 
man alert,  absorbed,  missing  nothing,  and  occasion- 
ally contributing  a  flash  of  lightning ;  the  Scot  atten- 
tive, grim  and  suspicious,  occasionally  emitting  a 
growl  of  thunder. 

As  they  sat  amid  the  smoke-wreaths  they  talked 
about  themselves,  about  their  work,  about  their  place 
and  influence  in  the  world  —  a  tendency  of  conver- 
sation which  seemed  to  puzzle  Gaston  St.  Paul  very 
much. 

"  But "  —  opening  his  hands  and  shrugging  his 
shoulders  —  "  you  are,  you  exist,  you  have  arrived, 
you  people,  you  make  the  plays  and  the  books  and 
the  pictures  of  your  country ;  and  yet  you  talk  about 
what  people  think  of  you !  " 

"  It  matters  in  England,"  said  Marston ;  "  the 
public  will  do  anything  rather  than  support  really 
good  work;  they  have  to  be  bullied  into  it.  It  has 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  139 

to  be  made  the  fashion.  In  France  you  patronize 
your  public ;  here  we  have  to  fight  them  —  and  in  a 
way  we're  all  fighting  them  —  even  Savage  here,  or 
Midwood.  Half  the  people  who  buy  their  work 
don't  really  like  it;  but  they  know  it's  the  right 
thing." 

"  Of  all  the  desperate  means  ever  taken  to  ignore 
the  true  issue  of  work  in  this  universe,"  said  Caird 
slowly,  his  Scotch  accent  more  pronounced  than 
usual  by  reason  of  his  emotion,  "  I  think  that  is 
the  most  wrongheaded  and  desperate.  Make  your 
work  the  fashion!  Fashion  with  whom,  pray? 
Fashionable  where?  In  the  lewd  monkey-house  ye 
call  society  ?  I  wonder  at  ye,  Mr.  Marston." 

"  How  wonderful !  "  said  Cyril  Midwood,  turning 
to  Caird.  "  How  delicious  to  hear  that  Puritan  note 
booming  through  our  fribble  of  vanities.  The  sound- 
ing brass  and  the  tinkling  cymbal!  I  forget  the 
passage,"  he  went  on,  passing  his  hand  over  his  brow, 
"  but  I  am  sure  it  is  full  of  colour  and  meaning  — 
everything  in  the  Bible  is.  Go  on,  chastise  us 
more !  " 

Caird  laughed.  "  Not  when  you  kiss  the  rod ; 
I'm  not  harsh  enough  for  that." 

Gaston  St.  Paul  turned  to  Rupert.  "  It  is  ama- 
zing," he  said,  "  how  you  are  all  allowed  to  be  suc- 
cessful in  England.  You  don't  deserve  it ;  you  are 
too  intolerant ;  you  are  like  children  playing  a  game. 
But  can  it  last  ?  You  admit  it  does  not  rest  on  the 
merits  of  your  work  —  the  people  do  not  understand 
its  merits!  They  wonder  at  you,  but  they  do  not 


140  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

know  you!  Their  mouths  are  open,  but  their  eyes 
are  shut" 

"  Their  purses  are  open,"  said  Jeyne. 

"  For  the  moment,"  replied  St.  Paul ;  "  but,  I  ask 
you,  how  long?  No,  no,  no;  you  are  buoyed  up  by 
the  upturned  faces  of  the  public.  You  are  all  too 
rich,  too  successful." 

"  That's  a  matter,  my  dear  Monsieur,  that  will 
very  soon  adjust  itself,"  said  Caird.  "  The  wide 
ocean  of  realities  is  ebbing  and  flowing  beneath  them. 
Wait  till  your  friends  with  the  upturned  faces  get 
a  crick  in  their  necks,  and  then  —  souse !  What  a 
bath-day  there'll  be !  " 

"  Charming,  charming,"  murmured  Cyril  Mid- 
wood. 

Caird  regarded  him  with  a  long,  penetrating  look, 
and  shook  his  head.  The  talk  drifted  to  other  things, 
and  presently  some  one  spoke  of  the  drawing  Rupert 
had  just  finished. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Eeid. 

"  Susannah  and  the  Elders,"  Rupert  answered, 
with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

Greer  looked  up  sharply,  and  even  the  mild,  in- 
dulgent, clever  Sibley  pursed  his  lips.  "  My  dear 
Rupert !  An  Academy  picture,  done  with  your  pen  ? 
You  would  never  condescend  to  that  ?  " 

"  Oh,  one  never  knows,"  said  Rupert,  rising  and 
putting  his  arm  through  Sibley's.  "  Come  and  see." 

He  took  a  couple  of  candles  over  to  a  corner  of 
the  room,  and  pinned  the  drawing  up  on  a  board, 
while  the  other  guests  gathered  round.  Rupert  fell 


WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS  141 

back,  and  had  a  flashing  consciousness  of  keen  en- 
joyment of  the  scene.  This  group  of  the  cleverest 
men  in  London  —  the  men  whose  work  he  most 
admired  —  grouped  round  his  work  in  expectation 
of  critical  enjoyment;  their  faces,  clever,  strong, 
full  of  character  and  individuality,  seemed  like  a 
noble  background  to  his  life  and  work. 

It  was  a  small  drawing,  done  with  the  combina- 
tion of  flowing  mysterious  lines,  infinitely  delicate 
pattern  work,  and  broad  contrasts  of  pure  black  and 
pure  white  for  which  Rupert  Savage's  work  was 
famous.  But  it  was  no  academician's  conception  of 
the  subject.  A  pool  of  water,  with  the  shimmering 
reflection  of  a  woman's  face  and  form,  and  round  it 
a  group  of  gnarled,  twisted  elder-trees,  instinct  with 
sinister  expression  in  every  knot  and  branch  and 
outline,  sapless,  shrunken,  and  withered  with  the 
first  blasts  of  winter;  aged,  tortured,  grotesque,  and 
yet  agonizingly  concentrated  on  the  pool  and  its 
image.  .  .  . 

Greer  was  the  first  to  speak.  "  Wit !  "  he  said, 
turning  away  with  a  frown.  "  What  the  devil  did 
you  want  to  be  witty  for  ?  "  And  he  turned  quickly 
back.  "  But  for  that  —  yes,  in  spite  of  that  —  how 
good !  " 

"  I  like  it,"  said  Sibley,  and  walked  away  to  the 
table  to  get  another  cigarette;  and  his  words  meant 
more  to  Rupert  than  the  more  elaborate  appreciation 
of  the  others. 

Cadman,  who  was  drunk,  but  critical  even  in  his 
cups,  went  to  the  table,  returned  with  a  handful  of 


142  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

roses,  and  tried  to  put  them  on  Kupert's  head. 
"  Best  thing  —  you've  done,"  he  pronounced  very 
slowly  and  distinctly.  They  all  began  to  discuss  it 
from  their  several  points  of  view.  Marston  and 
Jeyne  and  Winstanley  gloried  in  the  conceit  almost 
more  than  in  the  drawing.  Gaston  St.  Paul  laughed 
loud  and  long,  partly  in  pure  pleasure  at  the  mas- 
terly work,  partly  at  what  he  regarded  as  the  light- 
hearted  cynicism  of  the  conception.  "  It  is  not  seri- 
ous," he  said ;  "  you  are  laughing  at  the  public,  and 
they  will  find  you  out,  my  friend !  " 

"  It  is  rather  a   practical  joke,   isn't  it  ? "   said 
Reid ;    "  but  it  is  jolly  good  for  them.     They  expect 
a  grave,  sensual,  Puritan  sermon  on  that  theme  — 
and  they  get  this!     It  is  great." 

Cyril  Midwood,  who  had  been  silent  so  far,  laid 
his  hand  on  Rupert's  arm.  "  My  dear  boy,  I  thank 
you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  Instead  of  those 
dreary  old  men,  who  were  only  made  mischievous 
by  the  heat  of  the  day,  you  have  discovered  some- 
thing really  delightful  and  wicked!  The  wicked- 
ness of  old  men  on  a  hot  afternoon  is  vulgar  and 
disgusting ;  but  the  wickedness  of  old  trees  in  winter 
—  how  delightful,  how  fresh,  how  great,  how  true !  " 

In  any  other  man  it  would  have  been  fulsome 
nonsense;  but  the  gravity  and  enthusiasm  of  Mid- 
wood,  the  concentration  of  his  cadaverous  face,  the 
curious  charm  in  his  rather  husky  tones,  carried 
conviction  even  where  it  was  resisted.  Rupert  was 
unfeignedly  pleased  with  the  reception  of  his  work. 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  143 

Caird  remained  after  the  other  guests  had  gone. 
He  was  a  man  who  went  very  little  into  society,  but 
whose  company  was  valued  highly  by  the  few  on 
whom  he  bestowed  it.  Rugged  speaker  of  truths  as 
he  was,  he  had  the  shyness  that  often  goes  with  a 
character  like  his,  and  he  was  generally  an  almost 
silent  member  of  any  company  in  which  he  found 
himself.  He  had  met  Rupert  at  the  house  of  an  old 
friend,  Lady  Waynefleete,  and  had  liked  him  at 
once ;  partly,  perhaps,  because  he  was  so  different 
from  the  man  Caird  had  imagined  from  knowledge 
of  his  work  alone.  And  Rupert,  with  that  questing 
interest  in  things  outside  and  unlike  himself  that 
was  a  great  resource  of  strength  in  him,  had  at  once 
recognized  that  the  mind  of  Caird  was  no  ordinary 
mind,  and  the  man  himself  no  ordinary  man.  He 
had  impulsively  asked  Caird  to  come  and  meet  his 
friends  to-night,  and  Caird  had  as  impulsively  ac- 
cepted —  partly  out  of  curiosity,  partly  from  the 
wish  to  know  more  of  Rupert,  partly  from  a  haunt- 
ing sense  of  the  pathetic  that  the  famous  and  suc- 
cessful young  artist  had  awakened  in  him. 

They  sat  smoking  for  a  while  in  silence  by  the 
open  window,  looking  out  into  the  dusk  of  the 
short  summer  night,  luminous  with  lamps  and 
stars. 

"  There  was  a  man  asking  me  about  you  at  the 
Museum  to-day,"  said  Caird  presently ;  "  a  man 
Blake,  who  was  sent  over  by  the  Irish  Board  of 
Works.  He  seemed  a  harum-scarum  sort  of  a  fel- 
low. He  had  some  tale  about  your  walking  out  of 


144  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

Edmund  Heath's  house  one  night  and  disappearing, 
and  turning  up  three  years  afterwards  —  famous. 
I  hope  ye  did  no  such  thing." 

Rupert  smiled,  and  then  looked  grave.  "  Shall  I 
tell  you  how  it  happened ;  how  I  come  to  be  sitting 
here  to-night  talking  to  you  ?  " 

"  A  piece  of  human  history  would  be  a  fine  thing 
after  all  this  fal-lallerie.  Go  on;  now  just  tell  me 
the  plain  facts  if  they're  to  be  told." 

Rupert  put  down  his  pipe  on  the  window-sill. 
"  Five  years  ago  —  a  lifetime  ago,  when  I  was  a 
boy  and  didn't  know  anything  I  nearly  died  for  love 
of  a  woman.  I  was  simple  enough  to  tell  her  so,  and 
she  reminded  me  that  she  was  married,  and  a  Roman 
Catholic,  and  a  lot  of  other  things  that  didn't  seem 
to  me  to  have  anything  to  do  with  it.  I  thought  the 
end  of  the  world  had  come,  and  when  I  was  wander- 
ing about  waiting  for  it,  I  stumbled  on  Blake,  and 
he  dragged  me  in  to  Heath's  where  there  were  a  lot 
of  the  Irish  gang  —  O'Donnell's  lot,  you  know. 
Greer  was  there,  and  they  saw  some  of  my  work. 
O'Donnell  read  a  poem,  and  I  sat  down  and  drew 
'  The  White  Seal  of  Inishvhan  '  —  you  know  what 
I  mean.  They  began  talking,  and  drove  me  mad, 
and  I  went  away.  I  cared  about  nothing  except  es- 
caping, and  took  a  steamer  to  Liverpool,  where  I 
found  myself  next  morning.  I  telegraphed  for  my 
things  and  for  money,  and  found  a  Booth  liner  just 
going  to  sail  for  Portugal  and  South  America.  I 
took  a  ticket  for  as  far  as  she  went,  which  was  Para. 
I  didn't  know  where  or  what  Para  was.  I'd  never 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  145 

been  farther  from  home  than  London.  Does  this 
bore  you  ? " 

"  Go  on,"  said  Caird. 

"  It  was  all  new  to  me.  As  soon  as  we  were  out 
of  sight  of  land  the  sort  of  paralysis  that  had  been 
over  me  left  me.  There  were  some  interesting  peo- 
ple on  the  boat;  the  captain  was  a  friendly  old  boy. 
I  love  ships  and  the  sea.  I  found  I  couldn't  help 
making  love  to  one  or  two  pretty  people  on  board 
—  in  short,  I  began  to  get  better.  There  was  one, 
especially,  a  girl  of  about  six-and-twenty  who  had 
been  a  widow  for  five  years,  and  was  travelling  with 
her  mother  —  at  least,  that's  what  she  told  me.  I 
used  to  sit  for  hours  in  a  deck-chair  beside  her, 
making  fun  of  the  other  people.  I  was  careless  and 
bitter  —  you  know  what  I  mean  —  and  I  suppose 
it  made  me  seem  older  than  I  was.  But  every  now 
and  then  I'd  remember ;  and  then  I  wouldn't  speak 
to  this  girl  for  perhaps  two  days,  but  sat  and  moped 
by  myself,  or  walked  about  the  deck  scowling.  Of 
course  I  didn't  know  it  at  the  time,  but  no  doubt 
it  made  me  more  interesting  to  all  these  idle  people." 

He  paused  and  looked  up  into  the  spangled  sky. 
"  I  remember  when  we  were  in  harbour  at  Leixoes, 
and  nearly  every  one  had  gone  to  see  Oporto,  I  went 
ashore  by  myself  and  sat  on  the  beach  watching  the 
waves  breaking  on  that  yellow,  yellow  shore.  I  had 
never  seen  colours  like  the  red  and  white  of  the 
buildings,  the  blue  of  the  sea,  the  yellow  of  the 
sands !  Stevenson  once  said  that  the  most  beautiful 
thing  he  had  ever  seen  was  a  ship  sailing  off  the  coast 


146  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

of  Flanders.  Well,  far  and  away  the  most  beautiful 
thing  I  have  ever  seen  is  a  wave  breaking  on  the 
coast  of  Portugal.  Those  great  purple  waves,  burst- 
ing into  snow  and  thunder!  They  nearly  broke  my 
heart.  .  .  ." 

•  ••••*  ••• 

"  Go  on,"  said  Caird. 

"  Oh,  about  the  girl  ?  "  said  Rupert,  coming  back 
from  a  dream.  "  It's  soon  told.  We  went  on  to 
Para,  and  when  I  saw  the  yellow  river  and  the 
swamps  of  course  I  realized  that  there  was  nothing 
to  do  but  come  back  again.  I'd  been  neglecting  her, 
ashamed  of  myself  in  a  way,  and  in  a  way  wanting 
her  —  you  will  understand;  and  then  one  night, 
when  we  were  at  Madeira  —  she  was  leaving  the 
boat  there  —  she  came  into  my  cabin.  She  cried, 
and  said  I  was  being  cruel  to  her,  and  she  didn't 
care  for  anything,  and  she  knew  we  would  never  see 
each  other  again,  and  she  made  me  feel  thrilled  and 
unhappy,  and  she  kissed  me  over  and  over  again, 
and  —  well,  do  you  see,  I  happened  never  to  have 
been  in  that  situation  before.  I  was  terribly 
ashamed  of  my  innocence,  and  so  to  hide  it  I  met 
her  half-way.  I  needn't  go  into  details.  It  was  a 
clear  case  of  seduction;  but  when  she  had  gone  I 
believed  honestly  that  it  was  I  who  was  the  seducer, 
who  had  taken  advantage  of  a  helpless  girl.  I  was 
miserable  —  hated  her  and  myself  —  wondered  if 
I  ought  to  marry  her,  and  a  lot  more  wild  nonsense. 
Fortunately  I  never  saw  her  again.  Have  some  more 
whisky." 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  147 

"  Well,  here's  to  the  Tree  of  Knowledge,"  said 
Caird,  sipping  at  his  glass,  "  and  the  queer  fowl  that 
lodge  in  its  branches !  Go  on,  man  Savage." 

"  I  stuck  to  the  Alphege  and  waited  for  her  to  go 
back  to  Lisbon,  where  I  landed.  It  had  been  blind 
chance  that  had  taken  me  to  that  steamer  and  not 
to  some  Atlantic  liner  that  would  have  dumped  me 
in  New  York,  where  God  knows  what  would  have 
happened  to  me  in  that  mood  of  taking  everything 
that  turned  up,  good  or  bad !  I  can't  be  too  grateful 
to  the  Alphege.  She  took  me  out  of  winter  into 
those  warm  summer  seas,  she  gave  me  the  life  of  the 
sea  instead  of  an  hotel,  she  showed  me  strange  new 
countries  and  cities,  she  gave  me  human  society,  and 
she  landed  me  back  at  the  door  of  Spain,  in  the  world 
of  sun  and  colour,  instead  of  a  world  of  ware- 
houses !  " 

Caird  grew  impatient.  "  Is  this  an  advertisement 
of  the  steamship  line,  or  is  it  the  story  of  your  life  ? 
Man,  keep  to  facts." 

Rupert  laughed.  "  I'm  sorry  —  those  are  facts 
too,  because  I  felt  them.  Well,  I  stayed  in  Lisbon 
for  a  time,  and  then  went  on  to  Spain.  You  can 
imagine  what  it  was  to  me,  all  alone,  living  from 
day  to  day,  going  where  the  wind  blew  me,  to  find 
myself  in  Spain.  I  fell  in  love  with  Spanish  life 
and  with  the  country — that  combination  of  mad, 
sunburned  gaiety  and  the  sombreness  and  gravity 
of  those  great  rolling  landscapes.  I  went  all  over 
the  country,  from  Fuenterrabia  to  Cadiz  and  from 
Valladolid  to  Valencia,  and  at  last  I  drifted  to 


148  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

Granada,  and  couldn't  tear  myself  away  for  a  year, 
staying  even  through  the  heat.  I  drew  and  drew 
and  drew;  all  those  old  palaces,  the  Moorish  gar- 
dens of  the  Generalise,  the  pavements,  the  fabrics 
—  they  were  the  whole  of  life  to  me.  I  lived  in 
Madrid  for  six  months,  and  in  Seville  for  three,  and 
for  a  year  at  Toledo,  where  I  nearly  died  of  typhoid. 
I  lived  on  Spanish  painting,  from  El  Greco  to  Zu- 
loaga.  I  used  to  surfeit  myself  with  pictures  and 
buildings,  and  then  go  out  into  the  desert  to  pray  — 
to  draw,  I  mean.  There's  a  little  bridge  over  the 
river  in  the  middle  of  the  plain  between  Eciji  and 
Lucena,  a  hundred  miles  west  of  Granada;  there's 
a  solitary  inn  there,  very  dirty;  and  I  used  to  go 
there  to  dream  and  work.  It's  all  like  a  dream  now, 
but  it  taught  my  hand  and  eye  their  trade." 

"  And  what  about  yourself  all  that  time ;  never 
mind  your  hand  and  eye ;  what  were  you  doing  ? " 

"  Growing,"  said  Rupert  simply. 

Caird  put  out  his  hand.     "  Well  said,  well  done," 
and  he  grasped  Rupert's.     "  Solitude  and  work  — 
no  better  school  for  those  who  can  stand  it  —  for  I 
take  the  solitude  for  granted." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  was  quite  alone.  .  .  .  There  were  in- 
tervals, of  course,  in  Madrid  and  Seville;  the  Tree 
of  Knowledge  bore  a  little  more  fruit  —  wild  and 
bitter-tasting  in  the  end,  but  my  heart  kept  clear  of 
it  this  time,  and  I  don't  think  I  took  any  harm. 
Perhaps  good." 

"  Nothing  that  a  man  does  of  his  own  choice  does 
him  any  harm,  provided  he  sees  all  round  it,  and 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  149 

knows  if  it  is  good  or  bad.  It  is  the  knowing  that 
matters,  not  the  doing.  And  the  end  ?  " 

"  The  end  came  one  day  when  I  was  sitting  in 
the  sun  at  Valladolid,  opening  the  English  mail. 
My  aunt  and  the  lawyer  were  the  only  people  I 
heard  from,  but  they  sent  me  papers  and  things.  I 
was  turning  over  the  Weekly  Review  when  I  saw  my 
own  name  —  and  there  was  an  article  about  me,  my- 
self, and  some  of  my  work  which  was  being  exhib- 
ited !  I  couldn't  make  out  who  had  got  hold  of  it, 
until  I  remembered  that  I  had  left  my  things  that 
night  at  Heath's  and  told  Tommy  Blake  he  could  do 
what  he  liked  with  them.  He  and  Greer  had  sent 
them  in  to  the  Modern  Artist's  show  —  and  people 
talked  about  them.  The  article  was  by  Cramer;  it 
was  nearly  all  about  my  work,  and  said  it  was  the 
biggest  thing  that  had  happened  since  I  don't  know 
what.  The  other  papers  talked  too,  and  the  whole 
thing  gave  me  a  hunger  for  my  own  land.  I  knew 
the  work  I  had  done  in  Spain  was  miles  better  than 
that  early  stuff,  and  that  if  what  half  they  said  was 
true,  I  was  all  right.  So  I  packed  up  and  went 
straight  home  for  a  week,  and  then  to  London  — 
and  you  know  the  rest.  The  show  of  Spanish  things 
was  a  ridiculous  success,  as  it  seems  I  have  been  ever 
since.  That's  all  the  story." 

"  Not  all,  my  friend,"  said  Caird,  looking  out 
through  the  window.  The  night  was  gone,  and  the 
pearly  reflection  of  dawn  floated  in  the  western  sky. 
"  Success  like  yours  is  never  the  end  of  any  man's 
story,  if  he  is  worth  his  salt.  Yon  Frenchman  was 


150  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

right  —  you're  too  successful,  too  high  up.  You're 
like  Zacchaeus,  who  climbed  up  into  a  tree  to  see  the 
man  from  Nazareth,  and  just  had  to  get  down  again 
for  his  pains.  You'll  hear  it  soon  enough :  '  Come 
down,  Zacchseus ! ' 

"  But  how  am  I  to  come  down  ? "  asked  Rupert 
laughing,  as  Caird  rose  to  go. 

"  That'll  be  managed  for  you,"  said  the  Scot 
grimly.  "  The  tree'll  come  down,  if  you  don't,  and 
you'll  just  be  on  your  two  legs  again.  Mind  you 
don't  lose  the  use  of  them  in  the  meantime.  Good- 
night." 


II 

THE  Charles  Steinmans  (it  used  to  be  Karl,  but 
that  was  altered  at  the  time  of  the  marriage)  had 
a  very  definite  position  in  London  society.  They 
were  very  rich,  and  Steinman  was  supposed  to  have 
played  up  patriotically,  and  also  done  well  for  him- 
self, on  two  separate  occasions:  first,  when  at  the 
age  of  thirty-five  he  married  Lady  Angela  Byrne 
under  circumstances  that  furnished  a  great  deal  of 
interesting  gossip  at  the  time,  and  second,  when  he 
bought  and  presented  to  the  nation  the  famous  Mu- 
rillo  that  was  on  the  point  of  going  to  America. 
Patriotism  (for  his  adopted  country)  and  painting 
were  his  two  passions ;  the  hours  he  spent  in  a  small 
office  in  Watling  Street  seemed  to  represent  an  unim- 
portant part  of  his  life,  although  in  fact  they  fur- 
nished the  means  for  his  more  embellished  existence. 
It  goes  without  saying  that  his  house  in  Hill  Street 
was  a  museum  and  picture  gallery  combined,  that  he 
had  a  good  cook,  and  that  the  people  whom  Lady 
Angela  invited  to  her  parties  were  of  sufficient  im- 
portance in  the  world  to  make  little  Steinman  feel 
that  he  was  a  "  force,"  and  that  his  son  and  heir, 
from  whose  Saxon  features  all  trace  of  Semitic  ori- 

151 


152  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

gin  had  been  mysteriously  eliminated,  would  have 
something  more  than  pictures  and  money  to  inherit. 

Among  Steimnan's  pet  hobbies  was  the  proprie- 
torship and  editorship  of  The  Riddle,  the  monthly 
magazine  devoted  to  the  work  of  Cyril  Midwood, 
Eupert  Savage,  and  the  brilliant  group  that  sur- 
rounded them.  On  the  Sunday  following  Rupert's 
party  he  went  to  lunch  with  the  Steinmans  in  order 
to  hear  some  proposal  which  Steinman  had  to  lay 
before  him;  and  although  he  went  as  a  matter  of 
course,  he  did  not  hope  for  much  amusement.  He 
respected  Steinman's  knowledge  of  art  matters  and 
enthusiasm  for  them,  but  he  rather  laughed  at  him 
in  other  ways  —  he  was  so  very  English,  even  for 
a  Jew. 

Midwood  would  be  there  too;  and  as  Rupert 
walked  along  Piccadilly,  very  carefully  dressed  and 
with  a  carnation  in  his  button-hole,  he  wondered, 
not  for  the  first  time,  if  he  really  liked  Midwood. 
Rupert  had  accepted  him  unquestioningly,  as  he  had 
accepted  the  whole  artistic  situation  when  he  came 
to  London;  he  himself  had  fallen  so  naturally  into 
place  beside  Midwood  as  the  keystone  of  the  whole 
thing,  that  he  never  dreamed  of  doubting  that  the 
foundations  were  planted  deep  in  the  reality  of 
things.  And  yet  he  had  never  taken  to  Midwood 
as  he  had  to  Sibley  and  Bowen  and  Cadman,  and 
some  of  the  others.  They  were  all  craftsmen,  artists 
to  the  back  bone ;  he  was  not  so  sure  about  Midwood. 
His  work  was  undeniably  beautiful  —  a  filigree  of 
words,  patterned,  shot  with  colour,  encrusted  with 


WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS  153 

gems  of  sound  and  sense ;  morbid  of  course,  but  then 
Rupert  did  not  in  the  least  mind  that.  If  Midwood's 
perversity  made  his  work  more  interesting,  the  clean- 
living  Rupert  would  have  been  the  last  to  blame  him ; 
it  was  art  for  art's  sake,  art  before  anything.  In 
their  revolt  against  the  beauty  of  the  obvious,  the 
beauty  degraded  by  the  enjoyment  of  the  multitude, 
he  and  his  friends  preferred  to  make  their  search 
for  the  beauty  that  lay  hidden  in  ugly  or  despised 
things.  The  time  had  come  for  a  forcible  abduction 
of  art  from  the  overpowering  embraces  of  morality; 
it  was  one  of  the  chief  missions  of  Rupert's  group ; 
art  was  to  be  set  free  by  them  from  her  long  impris- 
onment in  the  ogre's  castle,  and  carried  off  to  share 
their  free  Pagan  life  of  forest  and  shore.  And  in 
this  cutting-out  expedition  Cyril  Midwood  was  the  ac- 
knowledged leader;  while  the  others  merely  ignored 
conventional  morality  in  their  work,  he  openly 
flouted  and  insulted  it  both  in  his  work  and  life; 
and  of  them  all,  he  was  the  chief  one  to  draw  the 
fire  of  the  ogre's  guns. 

Rupert,  walking  across  Berkeley  Square,  decided 
that  he  did  not  like  Midwood.  To  tell  the  truth, 
he  did  not  always  read  his  poems;  their  still,  sultry 
atmosphere  was  unmoved  save  for  an  occasional 
breath  of  passion  that  came  and  went  in  the  rhythm, 
scentless  and  hot  like  the  desert  breeze  that  idly 
swings  the  silken  curtains  of  a  tent;  and  Rupert 
in  his  heart  remained  a  lover  of  the  western  horizon, 
that  fresh  sea-wilderness  in  which  the  sun  seeks  his 
rest,  rather  than  of  the  burning  Eastern  line  out  of 


154  WHEN  THE   TIDE   TURNS 

which  he  rises.  It  was  all  a  little  foreign  to  him, 
and  he  could  never  bring  himself  to  real  intimacy 
with  Midwood.  No,  he  did  not  like  him. 

Groups  of  people  dotted  the  pavement,  return- 
ing from  the  Sunday  parade  in  the  park.  Elderly 
women,  expensively  and  strikingly  dressed,  suffer- 
ing discomfort  from  the  unwonted  exercise  of  walk- 
ing, offended  his  sight.  Evidence  of  extreme  wealth 
always  offended  his  Irish  soul;  it  was  almost  the 
only  point  on  which  he  differed  from  his  friends, 
who  accepted  pride  and  luxury  and  arrogance  as 
among  the  splendid  things  of  life.  "  We  must  have 
all  these  things,  because  we  are  great."  Rupert  Sav- 
age, with  more  money  than  he  wanted  to  spend  and 
dressed  in  the  extreme  of  fashion,  passed  contemp- 
tuously by  the  denizens  of  Berkeley  Square  limping 
home  to  lunch.  "  Rich  Philistines,"  he  said  to  him- 
self. 

Just  then  he  saw  Cyril  Midwood  coming  down 
the  other  side  of  the  square  on  his  way  to  Hill  Street. 
In  spite  of  his  reflections  of  the  moment  before, 
Rupert  had  a  sense  of  relief,  of  pleasure  at  the  sight 
of  the  stooping,  dandified,  and  yet  distinguished 
figure  coming  towards  him.  This  was  no  Philistine 
at  any  rate,  but  one  of  his  own  world.  And  when 
Midwood  greeted  him  affectionately  and  impress- 
ively, Rupert  decided  that  he  did  lihe  him. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Rupert,  always  young,  always 
handsome,  always  the  master  of  the  world !  give  me 
your  arm,  and  we  will  do  a  work  of  charity,  and 
let  these  old  vulgarians  write  down  one  golden  fact 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  155 

in  their  tedious  lives :  that  they  saw  us  walk  up  Hill 
Street  together  one  summer  Sunday  in  this  year  of 
grace !  " 

There  was  no  one  else  at  the  Steinmans'  except 
Steinman's  younger  brother  Friedrich,  lately  arrived 
from  Hamburg,  and  nobly  trying  to  be  an  English- 
man like  Charles,  in  spite  of  difficulty  with  the  lan- 
guage. Lady  Angela's  tired  face  brightened  up  in 
the  society  of  Rupert  and  Midwood  who,  one  on 
each  side  of  her,  played  a  pretty  and  elaborate  game 
of  rivalry  for  her  smiles. 

But  half-way  through  lunch  Steinman,  who 
thought  that  enough  time  had  been  spent  in  pleas- 
ant frivolity,  interrupted  with  his  favourite  phrase: 

"  Well  now,  suppose  we  come  to  the  point." 

"  How  very  tiresome  of  you,  Steinman,"  said 
Cyril  Midwood.  "  You  are  always  coming  to  the 
point,  and  losing  your  illusions,  and,  what  is  worse, 
robbing  me  of  mine." 

Steinman  smiled  indulgently;  he  knew  that  it 
was  the  proper  thing  to  admire  everything  Midwood 
said,  but  he  was  tenacious,  and  began  to  dominate 
the  conversation.  Rupert  had  to  listen  to  the  com- 
mercial appraisement  of  his  own  talents  and  those 
of  his  friends  by  the  owner  of  The  Riddle;  and  as 
Steinman  paid  him  £1200  a  year  for  a  dozen  draw- 
ings, it  was  no  more  than  decent  to  listen  politely. 
The  talk  turned  to  Midwood's  recent  visit  to  Syria, 
and  he  fascinated  them  with  an  account  of  things  he 
had  seen  or  imagined  there,  waving  his  long  hands 


156  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

and  chanting  vivid  phrases  with  his  husky  voice, 
until  they  all  fell  under  the  spell,  and  only  the 
brothers  occasionally  broke  away  from  it  to  exchange 
significant  glances. 

When  Lady  Angela  had  retired  the  younger  Stein- 
man,  who  had  been  keeping  rather  in  the  background 
of  things,  and  did  not  always  answer  to  his  new 
name  of  Freddy,  came  and  sat  beside  Midwood. 

"  You  talk  wonderful,"  he  said,  waving  his  little 
short  arms  in  a  grotesque  imitation  of  Cyril ;  "  you 
haf  the  gifts  —  I  raise  my  glass  to  you !  " 

There  was  honest  enthusiasm  in  Freddy's  beady 
eyes,  and  Midwood  could  never  resist  making  a 
convert.  His  enemies  said  that  he  had  an  eye  to 
the  main  chance,  and  cared  less  that  people  should 
understand  him  than  that  they  should  be  rich  enough 
to  be  of  use  to  him,  but  it  was  not  true.  He  had 
the  instinct  to  fascinate,  to  conquer,  and  he  took  the 
same  trouble  with  the  worthy  as  with  the  unworthy. 
Often  his  methods  were  those  of  mere  gross  flattery, 
but  his  manner  carried  them  off. 

He  filled  a  glass  of  wine.  "  I  see  that  you  are  one 
of  those  who  feel,  who  understand.  You  must  be 
one  of  us.  Rupert,  we  have  found  a  new  adherent 
to  the  cause  of  beauty  and  art.  Fill  your  glass  and 
let  us  drink  to  him.  This  is  a  great  moment  —  the 
moment  of  friendship !  "  They  drank  to  the  flat- 
tered and  embarrassed  Freddy.  "  Golden  wine, 
golden  wine,"  went  on  Midwood  in  his  chanting 
voice ;  "  it  is  the  proper  libation.  Drink,  my  friend ; 
drain  your  glass  while  this  moment  lasts !  " 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  157 

To  Freddy  it  was  a  new  and  not  wholly  disagree- 
able idea,  this  raising  of  drinking  to  the  level  of  a 
solemn  rite.  Basking  in  the  sunshine  of  Midwood's 
favour,  he  drank  some  more,  until  his  diffidence  was 
gone. 

"  Now,"  said  his  brother,  "  Freddy  has  a  proposal 
to  make  to  you  two.  I  should  say  that  Freddy  is 
going  to  settle  in  London  and  go  in  for  publishing 
very  elaborate  and  beautiful  books,  on  art  chiefly. 
Some  in  colour,  you  know,  by  that  new  Metz  process 

—  limited  editions,  ten  guineas  a  copy  —  that  sort 
of  thing." 

"  Splendid,  splendid,"  murmured  Midwood ;  "  we 
will  guide  him  in  the  right  path  —  eh,  Rupert  ?  " 

"  Rather,"  said  Rupert.  "  It's  an  excellent  idea, 
and  bound  to  succeed  if  it's  properly  done,  and  you 
get  the  right  men's  work  for  it." 

"  Well,  that's  the  whole  point,"  said  Steinman. 
"  Now  Freddy's  idea  is  —  he  asked  me  to  put  it 
before  you,  but  he  might  just  as  well  do  it  himself 

—  to  get  you  two  men  to  do  a  book  together.     You 
told  me,  I  think,  Midwood,  that  you  had  written  some 
poems  about  Syria,  isn't  it?     Well,  why  not  write 
some  more  ?    Call  them  '  Syrian  Songs,'  and  get  Sav- 
age to  do  a  dozen  or  twenty  drawings  to  illustrate 
them.     The  printing  and  reproductions  would  have 
to  be  quite  perfect,  and  you  could  get  such  a  price 
for  a  limited  edition  that  would  enable  you  to  make 
it  one  of  the  most  beautiful  books  that  has  ever  been 
produced.     Isn't  that  it,  Freddy  ?  " 

"  That's  right,"  said  Freddy. 


158  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

"  Syrian  Songs,"  said  Midwood  to  himself ; 
"  Steinman,  I  begin  to  think  you  are  a  poet !  the 
title  is  admirable.  What  do  you  think,  Rupert? 
Or  rather  what  do  you  see  ?  The  merchant's  tents, 
the  colour  and  embroidery,  sword-blades,  scimitars, 
the  tents  of  love  in  the  desert,  the  pilgrims,  the 
nomads,  the  mosques!  What  do  you  hear?  The 
wind  on  the  desert,  the  wash  of  the  Dead  Sea  waves, 
the  jingle  of  the  caravan,  the  muezzin's  call  to 
prayer,  the  love-songs  of  shepherd  boys  on  the  slopes 
of  Lebanon !  Oh,  you  must  do  it,  we  must  do  it !  " 

Rupert  was  stirred  by  the  voice,  the  words,  the 
music  and  colour  of  the  names  and  the  pictures  they 
called  up.  He  saw  it  at  once  as  a  masterpiece,  a 
thing  after  his  own  heart,  and,  characteristically,  he 
did  not  inquire  more  or  hesitate  a  moment. 

"  Yes,  yes,  that  is  a  thing  to  do,  Cyril  —  we'll  do 
that,  and  make  a  great  thing  of  it  —  we  and  Stein- 
man," remembering  Freddy  and  turning  to  him 
with  a  smile.  "  We  must  drink  again  —  '  Syrian 
Songs ' !  " 

They  drank  the  toast  with  enthusiasm,  and  there 
was  a  little  more  talk,  in  which  the  elder  Steinman 
raised  the  question  as  to  whether  the  public  would 
be  sufficiently  interested  in  Palestine. 

"  Syria,  Syria,"  said  Midwood  —  "  that  is  quite 
a  different  thing.  Palestine  means  the  Holy  Land, 
and  Bible  maps,  and  all  sorts  of  dull  things;  our 
Syria  is  a  land  of  love  and  colour  and  strange  pas- 
sions and  melancholy  sins !  " 

"Dhat's  right;    dhat's  the  note!"  said  Freddy, 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  159 

who  as  he  drank  more  wine,  increased  in  veneration 
for  Midwood,  and  also  began  to  lisp :  "  Melancholy 
thinth  —  very  goot !  Eh,  what  ?  You  play  up  to 
dhat,  Mr.  Thavage,  and  we'll  have  a  thucceth,  ithn't 
it?" 

"  Shut  up,  Freddy,"  said  Charles ;  "  you  can 
leave  the  contents  of  the  book  quite  safely  in  the 
hands  of  our  friends.  Come  and  see  those  etchings," 
he  added  to  Rupert,  who  was  rather  disgusted  by 
Freddy's  outburst,  and  willingly  followed  his  host. 

"  He's  all  right,"  said  Steinman,  "  only  he  doesn't 
quite  know  the  ropes  yet.  He's  a  very  clever  man, 
that  brother  of  mine;  they  think  a  lot  of  him  on 
the  Continent.  He's  full  of  this  idea;  it  will  be  a 
big  thing.  Now,  then,  what  do  you  think  of  these  ?  " 

In  the  dining-room,  with  a  glass  of  wine  before 
him  and  a  big  cigar  in  his  mouth,  Freddy  sat  in  a 
corner  listening  to  the  jewelled  words  of  Midwood, 
and  displaying  more  and  more  the  half-drunk  sub- 
mission that  was  his  most  eloquent  tribute  to  Mid- 
wood's  personality. 

Rupert  went  on  by  himself  to  Queen's  Hall,  where 
he  was  in  time  to  hear  more  than  half  of  the  pro- 
gramme. Music  was  one  of  the  many  new  pleasures 
that  his  life  in  London  made  possible  for  him;  he 
liked  sitting  alone  among  those  vast  audiences  watch- 
ing the  eloquent  rise  and  fall  of  the  fiddle-bows  and 
submitting  himself  to  the  sorcery  of  Strauss  or  the 
mastery  of  Beethoven.  This  afternoon  the  music 
was  of  a  gentler,  more  intimate  character,  and  Men- 


160  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

delssohn's  "  Midsummer  Night's  Dream "  overture 
came  like  a  refreshing  shower  after  the  rather  op- 
pressive hours  at  Steinman's. 

Pachmann  was  playing,  moreover,  and  Rupert 
seldom  lost  a  chance  of  listening  to  and  looking  at 
that  half-simian,  half-angelic  sorcerer.  The  concerto 
was  Schumann's  in  A-minor,  and  at  the  opening  suc- 
cession of  tense  chords  Rupert  sat  straight  up  in  his 
chair,  experiencing  one  of  his  premonitions,  aware 
that  somehow  or  other  this  music  would  have  a 
special  significance  for  him.  He  listened  carefully 
to  the  cool,  plaintive  theme  given  out  by  the  wood- 
wind, and  watched  the  soloist  as,  with  his  tongue 
in  his  cheek,  his  shoulders  shrugged,  and  the  face  of 
one  who  violates  a  confidence,  he  took  up  the  same 
theme  and  let  it  float  away  from  under  his  fingers  in 
milky  chords.  Then  Rupert  shut  his  eyes  and  felt 
himself  borne  away  on  the  tide  of  music  —  that  flood 
of  darker  sound  that  rises  from  the  tenor  depths  of 
the  strings  and  eddies  sombrely  about  the  heart.  As 
the  stream  of  sounds  flowed  on  and  the  tragic  love- 
liness of  the  following  themes  established  itself,  the 
music  evolved  a  personality  of  its  own,  feminine, 
wistful,  incomplete.  Schumann  and  Pachmann  and 
the  hundred  frock-coated  musicians  who  were  blow- 
ing and  fingering  and  bowing  up  there  in  a  sum- 
mer storm  of  harmony  all  vanished  from  Rupert's 
thought;  it  was  a  woman's  voice,  deep  and  tearless, 
that  spoke  from  the  music,  a  woman's  eyes  that 
watched  through  a  veil  of  misty  remoteness  for  some 
answering  look  from  him.  If  ever  music  was  fern- 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  161 

inine,  this  music  was  —  so  beautiful  in  form,  so 
exquisite  in  all  its  appointments,  so  borne  along  and 
buoyed  up  on  a  pretty  commotion  of  colour  and 
sound  like  that  which  women  are  asked  to  make  in 
the  world,  and  with  which  the  long-drawn  notes  of 
the  soul,  those  true  themes  of  their  lives,  must  be 
made  to  harmonize. 

Pachmann,  playing  sublimely,  his  hands  dancing 
over  the  keys  with  fingers  of  iron  and  velvet,  ripped 
a  great  tangle  of  harmonies  from  the  very  bowels  of 
his  instrument,  gave  A-minor  a  pat  like  the  pat  of 
a  kitten's  paw,  and  lifted  his  hands  from  the  keys 
with  the  air  of  a  nasty  little  boy  who  has  been  caught 
playing  a  dirty  trick.  Fortunately  Rupert  was  not 
looking  at  him ;  his  soul  went  on  with  the  orchestra 
as  it  took  up  the  themes  again  and  brought  the  great 
song  of  woman's  life  and  love  to  an  end. 

He  went  out  and  walked  up  and  down  in  the  cor- 
ridor until  it  was  time  for  Pachmann  to  play  again ; 
he  was  excited  by  the  music,  in  love  with  it;  he 
wanted  to  hear  nothing  this  afternoon  but  that  fem- 
inine voice,  cool  and  intimate,  of  the  piano  speaking 
under  a  master's  hand.  The  remaining  solo  music 
was  all  Chopin  —  Chopin  played  as  only  Pachmann 
can  play  it.  This  time  Rupert  looked  as  well  as 
listened,  and  watched  those  twin  performances  — 
the  performance  of  the  fingers  and  the  soul,  and  the 
Punch-like  performance  of  the  droll  that  attends 
upon  them,  nodding  and  becking  and  grimacing,  and 
trying  to  make  the  audience  laugh  when  the  fingers 


162  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

would  make  them  weep.  Rupert  loved  this  Jekyll 
and  Hyde  performance,  though  it  did  not  make  him 
laugh  —  it  was  too  uncanny  for  that.  Pachmann 
was  a  little  like  one  of  his  own  drawings,  he  thought ; 
and  as  the  A-flat  impromptu  rippled  out  through 
the  hall  and  the  harmonies  faded  and  dissolved  in 
the  long  cadences,  he  made  a  little  conceit  about 
Pachmann  —  an  angel's  soul  imprisoned  in  the  body 
of  a  monkey,  and  allowed  to  have  control  of  nothing 
except  the  fingers.  What  shames  and  agonies  the 
angel  must  endure  when  he  builds  a  temple  which 
the  monkey  defiles!  what  bitterness  of  soul  when, 
having  made  an  enchanted  lake  of  sounds,  he  finds 
that  the  Ape  has  turned  it  into  a  Dead  Sea  and 
summoned  his  fellows  to  keep  a  Sabbath  by  its 
shores. 

Rupert  hesitated  as  he  turned  out  into  the  sun- 
shine of  Regent  Street.  He  was  greeted  by  many 
acquaintances  at  the  door,  and  more  than  one  fair 
face  and  friendly  voice  flattered  him  with  an  invita- 
tion to  share  the  afternoon  drive  and  intimate  hour 
of  tea ;  but  he  evaded  this  hospitality.  He  was  still 
stirred  by  the  music  of  Schumann  and  Chopin;  he 
had  a  longing  for  feminine  society,  but  not,  some- 
how, for  the  society  of  any  of  the  languid,  beautiful 
women  whose  white  hands  he  sometimes  kissed  and 
whose  selfish  eyes  invited  him  to  the  game  of  draw- 
ing-room dalliance.  He  was  not  in  love  with  any 
one,  and  he  had  steered  fairly  clear  of  the  sumptu- 
ous flirtation  that  good-looking  and  successful  men 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  163 

of  his  type  find  so  fatally  easy  in  London;  all  the 
same  he  wanted  to  be  with  some  friendly  woman. 

He  thought  of  Lady  Waynefleete,  and  wondered  if 
she  was  in  town.  He  would  go  and  see  —  she  was 
the  very  person  with  whom  to  spend  a  quiet  hour 
and  forget  about  the  Steinmans.  He  walked  through 
the  Sunday  streets  to  Bryanston  Square,  where  Lady 
Waynefleete  had  one  of  those  roomy  and  beautiful 
old  houses  that  still  keep  a  little  pride  and  ancient 
dignity  within  reach  of  the  Marble  Arch.  Yes,  her 
ladyship  was  at  home. 

She  was  sitting  in  the  long  cool  drawing-room, 
and  looked  up  smiling  as  Rupert  was  announced. 
She  was  a  great  friend  of  his.  Although  she  was 
hardly  fifty,  and  had  been  a  widow  for  ten  years, 
she  had  the  position  and  influence  of  the  great  lady 
of  a  former  generation.  Before  her  marriage  she 
had  been  a  maid  of  honour,  and  after  it  one  of  the 
most  famous  and  exclusive  hostesses  of  her  day ;  she 
had  been  the  recipient  of  more  dangerous  confidences 
than  any  woman  in  London,  and  an  unconscious  in- 
fluence behind  more  than  one  famous  life.  She  was 
plain  and  not  very  well  dressed,  and  she  had  won 
the  right,  by  sheer  quality  and  singleness  of  char- 
acter, to  do  what  she  liked,  go  where  she  liked,  see 
whom  she  liked.  She  was  a  sterling  friend,  but  she 
never  condescended  to  be  any  one's  enemy. 

"  I  was  just  thinking  about  you,  and  wondering 
when  you  were  coming  to  see  me,  or  whether  you 
were  getting  too  famous.  Well,  there  seems  to  be 
no  end  to  your  success.  I  felt  quite  ashamed,  out 


164  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

of  sheer  sympathy,  when  I  read  that  article  in  the 
Deux  Mondes." 

"  That  was  nice  of  you  —  what  a  lot  of  nonsense 
there  is  in  it  all !  But  —  I  don't  mind  telling  you 
—  I  can't  help  liking  it." 

"  Why,  of  course  you  like  it  —  so  would  anybody. 
You  will  never  fall  into  that  vulgar  mistake  of  de- 
spising the  good  opinion  of  your  contemporaries." 

"  Well  —  all  that  side  of  things  is  very  unim- 
portant, especially  when  I  am  talking  to  you.  My 
head  is  full  of  music  this  afternoon  —  Schumann's 
Pianoforte  concerto,  and  played  by  Pachmann!  It 
wakens  an  old  vice  of  mine  —  I  want  to  draw  un- 
drawable  things  —  the  first  movement  for  exam- 
ple." 

"  Be  careful !  You  sail  quite  near  enough  to  lit- 
erature, without  patronizing  music  as  well.  Surely 
you  can  let  the  other  arts  speak  for  themselves." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  one  must,"  said  Rupert  with  a 
sigh ;  "  but  there's  a  great  temptation  to  play  with 
them  all.  By  the  way,  I've  never  thanked  you 
enough  for  introducing  me  to  Caird.  I  felt  rather 
scared  of  him  at  first,  after  all  you  said ;  but  after- 
wards it  was  quite  another  matter.  I  like  him  so 
much ;  he's  an  extraordinarily  interesting  man.  He 
came  to  my  weekly  dinner  the  other  night,  and 
stayed  a  long  time  afterwards." 

"  What  did  he  talk  about  ?  " 

"  Now  that  I  think  of  it,  I  don't  believe  he  said 
much;  he  made  me  talk  to  him,  and  tell  him  all 
about  Spain,  and  myself." 


WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS  165 

Lady  Waynefleete  laughed.  "  Vanity !  No  won- 
der you  thought  him  interesting.  But  I  am  glad 
you  liked  each  other  —  he  wouldn't  have  come  if  he 
hadn't  liked  you." 

"  I  don't  know  what  he  thought  of  us.  Cadman 
was  —  well,  in  his  usual  condition,  I'm  afraid ;  and 
Midwood  was  very  Midwoodish,  and  he  rather 
pitched  into  us." 

"  And  a  very  good  thing,  too ;  I  daresay  you 
needed  it.  You  know  I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  critic, 
but  I  sometimes  wonder  if  it  is  really  necessary  for 
good  literature  to  be  quite  so  unwholesome  as  some 
of  Mr.  Midwood's  poems  ?  Yes  ?  Oh,  I  know  you 
are  laughing  at  me;  I  don't  know  Mr.  Midwood, 
and  I  don't  think  I  want  to,  but  I  don't  like  his 
work." 

"  Oh,  but  you  mustn't  say  that,"  said  Rupert  on 
the  defensive  at  once,  and  all  the  more  because  he 
felt  guilty  of  having  felt  as  Lady  Waynefleete  felt. 
"  His  work  is  wonderful.  It  is  too  beautifully  done 
not  to  be  wholesome  —  though,  after  all,  there  are 
other  things  to  eat  besides  porridge,  even  though 
they're  not  as  wholesome  —  truffles,  and  caviare,  and 
peaches  for  example." 

"  I  am  probably  quite  wrong,"  said  Lady  Wayne- 
fleete, shaking  her  head,  "  and  in  your  heart  you 
think  me  dreadfully  dull  and  frumpish  for  saying 
that;  oh,  yes  you  do;  but  still  —  well,  there  it  is. 
I  shall  ask  Mr.  Caird  if  he  agrees  with  me." 

Rupert  was  about  to  reply  when  the  footman 
opened  the  door  and  announced  "  Mrs.  Graeme,  my 


166  WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS 

lady."  As  he  stood  up  a  tall,  graceful  woman  came 
across  the  room  to  Lady  Waynefleete. 

"  Celia,  my  dear !  How  charming,"  said  Lady 
Waynefleete,  taking  both  her  hands.  "  Yes,  sit  here. 
Do  you  know  Mr.  Rupert  Savage  ?  —  Mrs.  Graeme. 
How  nice  of  you  to  come.  Mr.  Savage  and  I  were 
just  going  to  quarrel." 

"  I  am  some  use  in  the  world,  then !  I  was  be- 
ginning to  think  I  was  none.  I  have  been  trying 
to  be  nice  to  some,  oh,  my  dear,  such  dull  people  at 
luncheon,  and  only  succeeded  in  being  stupid  and 
boring  them.  Colonel  Wurling  asked  me  what  my 
favourite  text  was,  and  I  could  think  of  nothing, 
and  shouldn't  have  known  what  to  say  if  Mr.  Savage 
hadn't  come  to  my  aid." 

"  I  ? "  said  Rupert,  puzzled  and  attracted. 

"  Yes  —  I  looked  helplessly  round  the  room  and 
caught  sight  of  your  drawing  — '  Stay  me  with 
flagons,  comfort  me  with  apples,  for  I  am  sick  of 
love';  so  I  said  that!  He  looked  rather  shocked, 
and  passed  me  the  Madeira;  and  then  we  began  to 
talk  about  you." 

"  Now  this  is  very  interesting,"  said  Lady  Wayne- 
fleete, leaning  forward.  "  Tell  me  what  he  said." 

"  No,  tell  us  what  you  said ;  I  am  sure  it  was  both 
kinder  and  more  interesting,"  said  Rupert.  He 
wanted  to  hear  her  voice  again,  which  was  loW  and 
reedy  and  reminded  him  somehow  of  the  Schumann 
concerto.  She  was  evidently  about  his  own  age; 
her  profile,  which  was  towards  him,  was  very  pure 
in  its  lovely  outline,  and  there  was  an  effect  of  still- 


WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS  167 

ness  about  her  that  made  an  atmosphere  of  dignity 
and  repose  wherever  she  was.  She  sat  up  very 
straight  and  still,  without  any  movement  except  of 
her  shining  violet  eyes  and  animated,  clear-cut 
mouth. 

"  I  was  bound  to  say  nice  things  about  you,  or 
rather  about  your  work,  when  you  had  given  me  my 
text,  and  especially  as  the  Colonel  doesn't  approve 
of  you.  I  had  to  hear  a  lecture  about  decadence, 
and  morbid  perversion  of  talent,  and  the  corrupting 
influence  of  art  unless  it  had  a  moral  purpose,  and 
other  dreadful  things,  to  any  extent.  It  seems  he 
had  been  to  the  l  Modern  Artists,'  and  come  away 
with  the  firm  conviction  that  you  and  Sibley  and 
Bowen  and  Cadman  and  Cyril  Midwood,  whose 
poems  he  had  been  reading,  represented  a  '  corrupt 
and  retrograde  influence  '  —  his  very  words !  " 

"  My  poor  child,"  said  Lady  Waynefleete,  "  how 
very  overwhelming  for  you  to  have  to  defend  them 
all  in  a  bunch." 

"  I  didn't  —  I  only  stood  up  for  Mr.  Savage  and 
Mr.  Bowen,  and  basely  deserted  the  others.  He  said 
afterwards,  '  he  was  glad  we  were  in  agreement  on 
some  things/  and  I  felt  a  wretched  hypocrite." 

Rupert  found  a  new  pleasure  in  listening  to  her 
voice,  quite  irrespective  of  what  she  said,  and  in 
watching  her  long  eyes  for  the  moment  when  they 
should  turn  towards  him.  He  was  quite  content  to 
sit .  silent  while  she  and  Lady  Waynefleete  talked. 
Pretty  women,  and  the  adornments  of  pretty  women, 
always  attracted  him;  but  the  attraction  of  Mrs. 


168  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

Graeme  was  unlike  that  of  the  other  women  he  knew. 
It  was  less  human  than  artistic;  he  felt  as  he  felt 
when  he  was  looking  at  a  portrait  by  an  old  master ; 
he  would  have  liked  to  sit  quietly  in  his  chair  and 
do  nothing  but  watch  her.  He  was  sorry  when  the 
time  came  for  him  to  say  good-bye. 

"  So  that  is  the  famous  Rupert  Savage !  "  said 
Mrs.  Graeme  when  he  had  gone.  "  What  a  boy  he 
looks ;  I  thought  he  was  much  older." 

"  Six  or  seven-and-twenty,  I  should  think,"  said 
Lady  Waynefleete.  "  I  like  him  extremely ;  he 
takes  his  success  so  well  —  it  hasn't  spoiled  him  a 
bit.  I  don't  like  that  set  particularly  —  one  hears 
dreadful  things  about  Cyril  Midwood  and  some  of 
the  others;  probably  quite  untrue.  But  Rupert 
Savage  is  a  gentleman  as  well  as  an  artist,  and  I 
confess  to  liking  him  all  the  better  for  it." 

"  He  is  very  quiet,"  said  her  friend. 

Lady  Waynefleete  laughed.  "  He  generally  rattles 
on  fast  enough,  I  assure  you.  I  expect,  my  dear,  he 
was  looking  at  you  —  it  is  his  business  to  appreciate 
beautiful  things.  I  hope  you'll  be  nice  to  him  and 
see  something  of  him;  men  like  him  are  always 
rather  at  the  mercy  of  the  women  they  know,  don't 
you  think  ? " 


Ill 

RUPERT  was  soon  deep  in  preparations  for  the 
drawings  for  "  Syrian  Songs."  One  of  the  secrets 
of  his  success  was  his  thoroughness,  and  he  more 
than  made  up  for  the  defects  of  his  early  education 
as  an  artist  by  the  patient  assiduity  with  which  he 
studied  any  subject  on  which  he  was  engaged.  The 
original  snare  in  his  talent  had  been  that  he  was  able 
to  produce  all  his  material  from  his  imagination; 
where  knowledge  failed  him  he  invented,  and  al- 
though the  invention  was  often  striking  and  always 
interesting,  it  had  stamped  his  earlier  work  as  the 
work  of  an  amateur.  But  his  years  in  Spain,  where 
he  had  found  that  the  wealth  of  ornament  and  de- 
sign in  the  world's  treasures  of  art  was  far  richer 
than  anything  his  bare  invention  could  contrive, 
taught  him  the  artist's  joy  of  rediscovering  and 
adapting  for  his  own  use  the  treasure  of  beautiful 
and  happy  things  that  had  come  from  the  golden 
age  of  the  arts,  with  the  result  that  his  work  gradu- 
ally became  linked  more  closely  with  that  mysterious 
succession  of  abiding  things  that  make  the  spirit  of 
art  independent  of  time  or  place.  His  conceptions 
remained  as  fantastic,  as  fresh,  as  extravagant  as 
ever,  but  his  craft  itself  became  deeper  and  more 

169 


170  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

significant,  and  his  mastery  of  line  more  and  more 
established  as  he  saw  more  clearly  into  its  evolution 
through  the  centuries. 

He  spent  long  days  in  South  Kensington,  in  the 
British  Museum,  in  the  Wallace  Collection,  in  all 
the  places  where  beautiful  things  were  conserved, 
with  an  eye  always  alert  for  line  and  ornament. 
For  one  little  drawing,  the  frontispiece  to  Marston's 
novel,  "  The  White  Terrace,"  he  had  visited  the 
Copenhagen  Museum,  the  Museo  Poldi-Perroli  at 
Milan,  the  Sant*  Angelo  collection  at  Naples,  the 
Cabinet  des  Medailles  at  Paris,  and  the  Eudolphi- 
num  at  Prague ;  and  in  that  way  he  supplied,  as  he 
went  along,  what  was  missing  in  his  equipment  as 
an  artist  He  never  yielded  to  the  temptation  to 
stray  into  bypaths  of  paint  or  other  media  in  which 
he  knew  he  could  never  be  a  master,  but  kept  to  his 
own  tools  and  his  own  craft,  until  he  made  them 
practically  his  own ;  thus  he  had  soon  plenty  of  imi- 
tators, but  no  rivals. 

In  this  also  he  was  different  from  some  other 
members  of  his  group.  In  most  of  them  there  was 
a  little  lack  of  solidity.  Their  cleverness  was  beyond 
a  doubt;  they  worshipped  cleverness  and  dexterity, 
and  threw  them  like  a  wonderful  mantle  over  faults 
of  vision  and  even  of  technique,  just  as  they  often 
diverted  attention  from  the  matter  of  their  work  by 
its  elaboration  and  distinction  of  manner.  But  they 
were  rather  inclined  to  despise  the  work  that  needed 
to  be  done  slowly  or  painfully,  and  Rupert  so  far 
deferred  to  this  view  that  he  pretended  that  his  own 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  171 

work  was  done  more  easily  than  was  the  case,  and 
his  hours  of  study  and  laborious  concentration  were 
spent  alone.  In  company  he  was  always  careless 
and  high-spirited,  and  encouraged  the  idea  that  his 
work  was  done,  so  to  speak,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 

The  only  one  of  them  who  made  no  pretence  of 
doing  things  easily  was  Sibley,  who  toiled  at  his 
masterpieces  in  a  dingy  studio  in  North  London 
from  the  first  light  of  morning  until  the  afternoon 
began  to  redden.  He  was  a  man  who  very  seldom 
talked  about  his  own  work,  or  indeed  any  one  else's; 
he  preferred  to  gossip  about  women;  and  Rupert 
had  very  early  been  attracted  by  this  man  of  strange 
contradictions  —  his  sunny,  irresponsible  disposi- 
tion, his  austere  devotion  of  his  life  to  labour,  his 
talk  of  pleasure  as  if  it  were  the  only  thing  worth 
pursuing;  and  his  slow  persistent  establishment  of 
a  great  post  mortem  reputation.  He  dined  out  every 
evening  and  flirted  with  some  woman  or  other,  and 
chattered  agreeably  about  the  stupidity  of  work  of 
any  kind;  like  most  of  the  group,  he  was  sought 
after  because  he  was  "  charming,"  not  because  he 
was  great.  Very  few  people  in  England  took  any 
interest  in  his  pictures,  which  they  found  ugly,  but 
they  willingly  accepted  his  reputation  at  second- 
hand. 

Rupert  had  gone  to  Sibley's  studio  one  day,  as  he 
knew  that  the  painter  had  some  fine  Persian  silks 
which  he  wanted  to  look  at.  He  was  sitting  in  a 
low  diffused  light,  a  half-gnawed  crust  of  German 
bread  beside  him,  retouching  a  sombre,  passionate 


172  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

little  study  of  blue  shadows  in  starlight  —  two  lovers 
kissing  beneath  the  archway  of  an  Italian  house. 
Rupert  paused  to  wonder  at  the  emotional  power 
shown  in  the  painting  of  the  woman;  there  were 
both  passion  and  tenderness  in  that  dim  figure  with 
its  arms  stretched  up  to  the  man's  shoulders,  and  the 
head  thrown  back  to  receive  his  kiss. 

"  When  I  look  at  a  thing  like  this,"  said  Rupert 
sighing,  "  I  understand  how  all  the  work  of  our  day 
will  seem  to  people  a  hundred  years  hence.  This 
is  the  work  that  lives." 

"  What  is  much  more  important,"  said  Sibley, 
biting  at  his  black  bread,  "  it  is  the  work  that  en- 
ables me  to  live.  Much  more  important.  Too  many 
pictures  live,  unfortunately.  If  this  will  live  until 
I  have  sold  it,  that  will  be  quite  long  enough.  You 
don't  mean  to  say  you  have  started  that  scare  about 
immortality  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  sha'n't  have  any,"  said  Rupert ;  "  I  get 
too  well  paid  now.  But  do  you  mean  to  tell  me 
you  don't  care  what  becomes  of  that  beautiful 
thing?" 

"  Why  should  I  ?  I  know.  As  soon  as  it  is  done 
I  shall  send  it  to  Zimmern,  who  will  send  me  ten 
pounds  for  it,  and  either  sell  it  for  fifty  or  put  it  in 
a  cellar." 

"  Damn  it,  Sibley,  it  mustn't  go.  I  must  have 
it.  I'll  buy  it  —  unless  there's  something  of  mine 
you  would  like  in  exchange  —  but  I've  nothing  good 
enough.  You  liked  Susannah,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"  I  would  willingly  give  you  six  things  like  this 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  173 

for  Susannah.  Why,  you'll  get  fifty  pounds  for  her, 
and  I'll  only  get  ten  for  this." 

"  What  has  that  got  to  do  with  it  ?  Susannah  is 
yours ;  and  if  you  really  will  give  me  that  delightful 
thing,  I  shall  enjoy  the  sense  of  cheating  you  more 
even  than  Zimmern  enjoys  it." 

"  You  are  a  brick,  Rupert.  I  am  enchanted  to 
possess  those  sinister  Elders ;  I  shall  have  every  one 
coming  to  my  studio  to  see  them.  .  .  .  How  about 
the  Syrian  Songs  ?  Are  they  very  steep  ?  " 

"  What,  the  poems  do  you  mean  ?  I  shouldn't 
think  so  —  I  haven't  seen  them.  I've  got  Midwood 
to  give  me  a  sort  of  description  of  each  one,  and  I'm 
making  my  drawings  from  those.  I've  only  done 
one  yet  — '  The  Tents  of  Kedar '  —  rather  nice,  I 
think." 

Sibley  screwed  up  his  eyes  and  took  his  palette- 
knife.  "  I  suppose  you've  heard  about  the  row  the 
other  night  ?  "  he  asked,  scraping  ruthlessly  at  his 
Venetian  archway. 

"  No.    What  row  ?  " 

"  Our  friend  Cyril  was  turned  out  of  a  restaurant 
in  Soho." 

"  I  say  —  what  an  ass !  "  said  Rupert.  "  Why 
can't  he  get  drunk  with  his  friends,  instead  of  in 
public?" 

"  I  don't  think  he  was  drunk  —  in  fact  I  know 
he  wasn't.  It  seems  he  wasn't  keeping  very  good 
company.  It  really  is  tiresome  of  him  to  go  on  like 
that ;  there's  sure  to  be  a  row." 

There    were    always    stories    flying   round    about 


174  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

Midwood.  The  man  had  two  characters  —  the 
decorous,  melancholy  dandy  of  Mayfair  drawing- 
rooms,  and  a  much  less  decorous  person  who  insisted 
on  treating  London  as  if  it  were  Paris  or  Cairo  — 
to  London's  indignation.  Rupert  was  not  a  lover  of 
Bohemian  Clubs  and  raffish  restaurants,  and  he 
merely  thought  it  odd  that  a  man  of  Midwood's 
refinement  should  spend  so  much  time  in  them.  The 
world  could  not  be  expected  to  understand  that  his 
vices  were  as  much  an  affectation  as  his  manners, 
and  that  he  cultivated  the  appearance  of  them  as  a 
protest  against  the  dulness  of  respectability.  They 
would  be  very  likely  to  take  him  at  his  own  valua- 
tion ;  and  there  was  no  doubt  that  a  large,  and  gen- 
erally silent,  body  of  public  opinion  was  becoming 
restive  at  the  liberties  which  he  and  some  of  his 
fellow-artists  took  with  what  they  were  pleased  to 
call  the  "  conventions  of  good  taste."  It  was  the 
fault  of  these  few  men  that  the  reproach  of  impro- 
priety lay  upon  the  work  of  the  whole  group.  The 
Riddle  was  supposed  to  be  "  daring "  and  rather 
shocking,  and  certainly  it  did  show  courage  and 
enterprise  in  a  dozen  directions  and  in  many  other 
ways  besides  that  of  being  not  very  suitable  reading 
for  little  girls. 

But  of  this  alleged  tendency  of  his  work  Rupert 
was  quite  unconscious.  He  thought  that  Midwood 
twanged  the  erotic  string  a  little  too  much,  but  it 
was  all  unimportant  to  him  so  long  as  the  work  was 
good.  "Not  what  was  done,  but  how  it  was  done, 
was  what  mattered.  He  had  a  great  contempt  for 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  175 

middle-class  and  Philistine  views,  and  thought  that 
anything  which  the  majority  of  people  were  con- 
vinced about  was  probably  wrong. 

He  had  two  or  three  interviews  with  Freddy 
Steinman  about  the  treatment,  size,  and  reproduc- 
tion of  his  drawings.  The  paper  was  being  specially 
made  for  the  book,  and  types  specially  cut  for  it; 
it  was  really  going  to  be  a  superb  thing,  and  sub- 
scriptions were  already  coming  in  for  the  edition 
of  four  hundred  copies.  Steinman  was  much  pre- 
occupied with  it;  Rupert  thought  that  he  seemed 
to  be  worrying  himself  unnecessarily.  He  tried  to 
hurry  the  drawings  on,  but  Rupert  refused  to  be 
hurried. 

"  No,  you  gave  me  twelve  months,  and  I'll  take 
twelve  months,"  he  said.  "  But  if  you  worry  me, 
they  won't  be  ready  even  then.  You  know  what  I 
mean." 

"That's  right,"  said  Freddy;  "but  it's  a  big 
thing,  you  know;  I  want  to  strike  while  dhe  iron's 
hot,  isn't  it?  If  dhe  interest  goes  down,  I  lose  my 
money,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  it  is,"  said  Rupert  with  a  grin ;  "  but 
you  won't  lose  your  money.  Why,  you  ass,  Mid- 
wood's  name  and  mine  would  carry  through  a  much 
bigger  thing  than  that." 

The  Jew  looked  at  him  with  a  weary,  anxious  air 
that  reminded  Rupert  of  a  sick  monkey.  He  couldn't 
help  having  a  sort  of  liking  for  Freddy  —  he  was 
so  very  anxious,  and  so  genuinely  enthusiastic.  He 


176  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

put  his  hand  on  Rupert's  shoulders  with  something 
of  his  elder  brother's  manner. 

"  Well,  I  like  enthusiasm  —  belief  in  yourself  — 
good !  You  —  we  —  want  more  of  that  in  England ; 
we  want  to  be  stirred  \\p  — '  Wake  up,  England,' 
isn't  it?  Ha!  we  wake  them  up  with  dhis  book, 
isn't  it  ?  " 

But  all  the  same  he  was  anxious  about  something, 
and  kept  bothering  Rupert  to  show  him  how  he 
intended  to  treat  the  subjects  supplied  to  him  by 
Midwood  for  illustration,  and  at  last  Rupert  refused 
to  show  him  anything  until  it  was  all  finished.  He 
would  not  even  read  Midwood's  poems;  he  had 
received  so  happy  and  definite  a  suggestion  for  his 
drawings  from  the  notes  supplied  by  the  poet  that 
he  refused  to  hear  anything  more,  lest  the  clearness 
of  the  pictures  that  had  suggested  themselves  should 
be  dimmed. 

"  How  right  you  are ! "  Midwood  had  said. 
"  There  is  nothing  so  true  as  the  first  impression, 
when  it  falls  on  a  perfectly  clear  mind.  Do  it  in 
your  own  way,  my  dear  Rupert,  and  I  shall  be 
happy." 

•  •••  •••  •• 

All  this  time  Rupert  was  living  the  ordinary  busy 
life  that  successful  youth  and  energy  make  for  them- 
selves in  London.  He  had  that  magic  key  *hat  opens 
every  door ;  wherever  he  went,  he  was  liked  by  men 
and  admired  by  women,  who  did  their  best  to  spoil 
him ;  but  his  years  at  the  Abbacy  House  had  ren- 
dered him  proof  against  their  attempts.  He  was 


WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS  177 

very  much  a  Londoner;  his  work  was  so  great  a 
part  of  his  life  that  his  taste  for  the  old  country 
pursuits  seemed  to  have  vanished,  and  he  refused 
without  a  pang  invitations  that  would  once  have 
seemed  to  the  dormant  sportsman  in  him  too  good 
to  he  true.  He  liked  his  success,  he  warmed  to  the 
smile  of  the  world,  and  consciously  enjoyed  it;  he 
went  out  a  great  deal,  and  delighted  in  the  endless 
succession  of  new  and  interesting  people  that  a  great 
metropolis  presents  to  those  who  live  in  the  sunshine 
of  rank  or  riches  or  fame.  He  was  always  to  be  seen 
at  first  nights,  when  indeed  the  Twelve  were  very 
much  to  the  fore,  proclaiming  their  boredom  or 
bestowing  their  approval  in  a  body.  His  father 
had  just  before  his  death  put  Rupert's  name  down 
for  a  certain  old-fashioned  club,  and  fortunately  for 
him  he  had  come  up  for  election  just  before  his  work 
began  to  be  talked  about,  and  as  no  one  but  his  spon- 
sors knew  anything  about  him,  he  was  elected.  If 
it  had  been  six  months  later  he  would  probably  have 
been  pilled,  for  at  the  "  Wanderers  "  they  do  not 
like  fame  or  notoriety,  and  prefer  a  well-bred  level 
of  impeccable  anonymity. 

It  was  characteristic  of  him  to  frequent  this  club, 
where  no  one  knew  or  cared  anything  about  pictures, 
where  testy  old  gentlemen  fidgeted  for  half-an-hour 
before  indignantly  pointing  out  that  a  particular 
footstool  had  been  moved,  and  where  he  talked  to 
men  about  the  things  that  they  were  interested  in, 
and  never  about  his  own  concerns.  He  liked  the 
escape  from  the  conscious,  mannered  world  of  his 


178  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

fellow-artists  to  this  half-grotesque  museum  of  class 
ideas,  class  manners,  class  standards,  where  what 
your  grandfather  had  done,  and  your  father  had 
been,  mattered  so  much  more  than  what  you  did  or 
were  yourself.  When  old  Lord  Carrick  said  fiercely 
to  Rupert  in  the  smoking-room,  "  Your  father  shot 
with  me  in  '66,  sir !  "  his  social  position  in  London 
was  established;  and  he  might  have  painted  like  a 
Rembrandt  or  a  Murillo,  without  adding  to  it  one 
jot 

He  went  for  week-ends  to  country  houses,  and  was 
bored  or  amused,  as  the  case  might  be;  he  went 
to  the  usual  dinner  parties,  and  was  brilliant  or  not, 
according  to  the  cleverness  or  attractiveness  of  the 
woman  he  took  in.  Eut  he  stuck  chiefly  to  London 
and  to  his  work.  He  shrank  from  going  back  to 
Rathshene,  in  some  degree  dreading  its  hold  upon 
him  and  its  disturbing  influence  on  the  new  life  he 
had  made  for  himself;  and  in  some  degree  fearing 
that  disillusion  which  so  often  lurks  in  old  scenes 
that  the  stream  of  our  lives  has  forsaken.  His  aunt 
did  not  live  there  very  much,  and  never  alone;  she 
spent  a  good  deal  of  time  at  an  English  Spa,  and 
seemed  to  enjoy  it,  so  Rupert  had  no  misgivings 
about  her.  He  sometimes  devoted  a  week-end  to  her, 
and  always  promised  himself  that  he  would  pay  the 
Abbacy  a  long  visit.  But  when  the  time  came  there 
was  generally  some  continental  picture-gallery  that 
had  to  be  visited,  some  piece  of  the  old  artistic  lee- 
way to  be  made  up,  and  the  opportunity  would  go  by. 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  179 

He  was  sitting  in  the  park  one  summer  afternoon 
watching  the  stream  of  carriages  flow  by,  and  idly 
admiring  the  colour  and  movement  of  the  scene. 
The  green  of  the  trees  was  till  fresh,  the  beds  and 
borders  were  gay  with  flowers,  and  both  the  carriage 
road  and  the  footpath  were  moving  bands  of  colour, 
alive  with  the  gleam  and  flutter  of  light  fabrics  of 
a  thousand  hues.  He  watched  the  faces  as  they 
passed  him,  especially  the  women's  faces;  they 
seemed  to  make  a  disturbing  music,  like  that  of  a 
slow  languorous  waltz,  and  wakened  in  him  a  hunger 
for  some  transcendent  emotion,  the  veritable  amour 
of  which  he  had  often  dreamed,  but  which  never 
came  to  him. 

He  had  known  little  loves,  for  he  examined  every- 
thing the  Fates  put  in  his  way;  but  somehow  he 
had  never  been  able  to  put  his  whole  heart  into  them. 
A  part  of  him  always  withheld  itself,  looking  on, 
an  embarrassing  spectator  of  these  affairs;  it  said 
nothing,  but  just  waited,  and  ultimately  froze  out 
the  simulated  ardours  of  his  other  self.  He  would 
even  have  liked  to  be  married,  but  the  girls  whom 
he  met  at  dances  and  in  country  houses,  although 
they  were  nearly  always  attractive  and  turned  out  in 
a  charming  pattern,  seemed  to  him  hardly  serious 
human  beings.  They  were  a  commercial  article, 
turned  out  for  the  marriage  market,  and  not  in- 
tended to  grow  up  until  the  blessed  words  "  so  long 
as  ye  do  well,  and  are  not  afraid  with  any  amaze- 
ment "  had  been  safely  pronounced.  Besides,  in 
the  world  in  which  he  moved  the  couple  of  thousand 


180  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

a  year  which  he  made  was  not  regarded  seriously 
as  an  income.  He  was  not  expected  to  make  love 
to  the  daughters  of  the  houses  which  he  frequented, 
and  he  found  it  easy  not  to.  ... 

He  heard  a  voice  beside  him  saying  in  a  soft, 
rather  drawling  tone,  "  It  is  you,  isn't  it  ?  I  can't 
wait  any  longer  for  you  to  look  round." 

He  turned  quickly.  A  pretty,  fashionably  dressed 
woman  had  taken  the  chair  beside  and  a  little  behind 
his.  As  he  raised  his  hat  and  mechanically  took  the 
offered  hand,  he  was  aware  that  the  face  was  a  per- 
fectly familiar  one,  but  for  a  second  or  two  he  found 
no  link  to  connect  it  with  himself.  Then  he  remem- 
bered, and  blushed  hotly,  stammering  some  words 
of  conventional  greeting.  The  roar  of  Piccadilly 
and  the  swish  and  rattle  of  the  passing  carriages 
became  the  crashing  of  surf  on  the  beach  at  Funchal. 
To  do  the  lady  justice  she  blushed  a  little  also,  but 
the  eyes  that  had  shone  like  stars  in  the  dark  of  that 
night  five  years  ago  were  now  discreetly  veiled  be- 
neath drooping  lids. 

His  outward  embarrassment  was  only  momentary, 
although  his  heart,  after  his  first  thump,  had  con- 
tinued to  beat  like  a  hammer. 

"  I  thought  you  were  at  the  other  end  of  the 
world,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  rather  severely,  and 
wondering  whether  she  intended  to  remember,  and, 
oh  heavens!  to  remind  him.  She  was  very  pretty; 
much  prettier  than  he  remembered  her,  much  more 
smart  and  voyante. 

"  So  I  was,  but  I  came  back  a  year  ago.     It's  a 


WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS  181 

wonder  we  haven't  met  before.  I  saw  you  at  the 
St.  James's  the  other  night.  Rather  an  amusing 
play,  wasn't  it?  and  just  a  little  bit  shocking." 

"  Yes,  Winstanley  is  always  clever  and  delightful. 
But  I  thought  you  lived  at  Brighton  ?  "  They  were 
getting  safely  on  to  general  subjects. 

"  Oh,  I  gave  up  my  house  there  and  have  a  flat 
in  town  now.  So  much  more  convenient,  don't  you 
think.  I  adore  town,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  of  course ;  it's  the  only  place  to  live  if  one 
wants  to  see  or  do  anything."  Evidently  she  was 
not  going  to  remember. 

"  When  my  mother  died  I  gave  up  the  house  in 
Brighton.  You  remember  my  mother  ?  " 

"  Dear  me,  I  am  sorry ;  yes,  of  course."  This 
was  getting  dangerous ;  Rupert  had  a  perfectly  clear 
remembrance  of  a  mild  and  rather  fatuous  old  lady 
who  was  always  knitting,  and  who  had  an  air  of  not 
objecting  to  anything. 

"  That  was  three  years  ago,  poor  dear.  It  seems 
a  long  time  ago  —  doesn't  it  ?  "  she  added,  lifting 
her  eyelids  and  sending  Rupert  a  flashing  glance. 
It  was  a  challenge;  there  was  something  either  of 
humour  or  defiance  in  it  —  he  could  not  tell  which. 

But  he  was  very  definitely  aware  of  something 
stealing  over  him  —  a  kind  of  agreeable  paralysis 
of  the  will,  and  a  faint  stirring  of  memory  in  the 
senses,  like  the  first  flutter  of  wings  that  have  been 
folded  in  a  long  sleep. 

"Yes,  a  long  time,"  he  answered,  returning  her 
glance  and  then  looking  away.  Again  the  roar  of 


182  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

the  traffic  changed  to  the  rush  and  crumble  of  the 
sea,  brushed  from  the  ship's  side. 

"  Well,  you  haven't  been  idle,  have  you,"  said 
Mrs.  Lane.  "  I'm  always  seeing  your  name  in  the 
papers;  it  must  be  rather  nice  to  have  the  whole 
world  fussing  round  you."  The  tired,  drawling 
voice  said  more  than  the  words;  there  was  a  flat- 
tering caress  in  it,  of  a  kind  against  which  Rupert 
was  never  quite  proof.  Certainly  she  was  very 
pretty,  he  thought,  looking  at  her  sideways,  and  had 
improved  immensely;  she  seemed  to  be  finer  and 
more  slender,  and  yet  to  have  acquired  a  certain 
voluptuous  charm  that  she  had  not  possessed  before. 

Suddenly  she  rose.  "  Here's  my  carriage,"  she 
said,  as  a  victoria  drew  up  by  the  kerb ;  "let  me 
give  you  some  tea  —  I  live  in  Ennismore  Gardens." 
She  turned  to  the  carriage  as  though  she  took  his 
acceptance  for  granted.  Rupert  hesitated;  he  had 
nothing  to  do,  he  felt  lonely;  this  ending  of  an  es- 
capade in  decorous  commonplace  would  help  to  oblit- 
erate it,  he  thought;  but  he  took  his  seat  in  the 
victoria  not  for  any  of  these  reasons.  He  went 
because  he  wanted  to  go. 

Rupert's  critical  eye,  travelling  up  the  coachman's 
back,  told  him  that  the  carriage  was  jobbed  —  but 
from  a  good  firm.  When  they  reached  Ennismore 
Gardens,  a  slight  delay  in  the  answering  of  the  bell, 
the  hurried  appearance  of  the  sixteen-year-old  page 
boy,  very  hot  and  limp  about  the  collar  and  button- 
ing the  last  button  of  his  coat,  and  a  flutter  of  skirts 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  183 

as  of  some  one  fleeing  from  one  room  to  another, 
suggested  a  certain  lack  of  discipline,  if  not  of  moral 
tone,  in  the  servants'  quarters.  The  furniture  was 
obviously  hired  —  but  from  Warings ;  and  though 
Rupert  was  no  economist,  he  knew  that  the  estab- 
lishment could  not  be  run  for  much  less  than  fifteen 
hundred  a  year.  All  of  which  piqued  his  curiosity. 

They  sat  in  a  rather  yellow  drawing-room  singu- 
larly devoid  of  any  personal  touch.  There  were 
very  few  books,  and  but  for  them  and  some  flowers 
the  room  was  exactly  as  (probably)  Warings'  fore- 
man had  arranged  it.  But  Mrs.  Lane  furnished  it 
quite  sufficiently,  Rupert  thought,  as  she  lay  neatly 
on  the  big  sofa  and  languidly  made  tea.  They  talked 
about  commonplaces,  and  Rupert  was  conscious  of 
a  mingled  sensation  of  relief  and  disappointment. 
He  wandered  about  the  room  talking,  her  eyes  fol- 
lowing him  as  he  paced  up  and  down. 

Presently  Mrs.  Lane  slipped  off  the  sofa  and  came 
over  to  where  Rupert  was  standing  examining  an 
old  china  bowl.  "  Do  you  know  what  I've  been 
dying  to  do  all  afternoon  ? "  she  asked,  standing 
close  beside  him. 

"  I  haven't  an  idea,"  he  said,  putting  down  the 
bowl  and  turning  to  her  with  a  smile. 

As  he  turned,  her  two  slender  arms  glided  up 
his  shoulders  and  the  hands  met  behind  his  neck, 
drawing  his  face  to  hers.  "  That !  "  she  murmured, 
kissing  his  mouth.  "  That,  and  that,  and  that !  " 
She  had  to  stand  on  tip-toe  to  reach  him,  and  when 
she  had  kissed  him  she  fell  back  a  little  so  that  he 


184  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

instinctively  put  his  arms  round  her  to  support  her. 
All  the  rest  followed  as  a  matter  of  course.  The 
passion  that  quivered  in  her  voice  and  body  blew 
upon  the  embers  of  memory,  fanning  his  senses  into 
fire,  and  he  found  his  own  lips  pressed  against  her 
hot  face  and  neck. 

The  wave  of  passion  passed,  leaving  Rupert  angry 
with  himself  and  her;  and  yet  his  hands  crept  al- 
most of  themselves  about  the  yielding  form,  holding 
it  still  closer  to  him.  Her  face  was  pressed  against 
his  shoulder,  and  the  scent  of  her  hair  was  faint  and 
fragrant. 

There  was  a  pause  in  which  the  ticking  of  the 
Sheraton  clock  sounded  busily,  methodically.  Then 
the  silence  was  broken  by  a  long  sigh,  and  Mildred 
Lane  looked  up  into  his  face  with  shining  eyes. 

"  Is  it  really  you  ?  Have  I  got  you  back  again  ? 
My  wonderful  boy!  why  did  we  ever  love  each 
other  ?  oh  why,  why  ?  " 

Rupert  kissed  her  mouth  —  not  because  he  was 
carried  away,  but  because  her  words,  the  abandoned 
infatuation  in  her  looks,  shocked  his  finer  senses, 
and  to  kiss  her  was  to  silence  her.  And  yet  though 
his  mind  looked  on,  rather  dismayed  by  this  reunion, 
and  in  no  degree  partaking  in  it,  there  were  other 
senses  that  it  gratified.  His  grey  eyes,  looking  out 
over  her  head  into  a  far  corner  of  the  room,  hardened 
a  little.  After  all,  why  not  ?  Here  was  love  offering 
itself;  an  artist  could  not  live  by  drawing  alone; 
adventure,  experience,  emotion,  were  all  necessary 
—  why  not  ?  .  .  . 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  185 

She  was  speaking  again,  speaking  her  crude  phys- 
ical admiration  of  him,  all  swept  away  as  she  was 
by  desire,  and  the  instinct  to  hold  him,  and  the 
sense  that  he  was  not  secure.  He  stopped  her  speech 
again  with  kisses,  and  even  as  he  gave  them  felt  that 
they  fed  the  fire  within  himself. 

Suddenly  she  took  her  arms  away  and  sank  down 
in  a  chair,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  but 
uttering  no  sound.  She  seemed  to  be  thinking. 
Rupert  felt  awkward  standing  by  himself  on  the 
hearthrug,  and  came  over  to  where  she  sat.  She 
took  her  hands  away  from  her  face  and  stretched 
them  out  to  him,  holding  him  off. 

"  Listen,"  she  said  quite  gravely,  but  with  a  little 
tremble  in  her  voice.  "  You  must  be  kind  to  me 
and  help  me,  just  this  once,  will  you?  I  want  you 
to  come  back  this  evening  and  dine  with  me  —  I'm 
quite  alone;  will  you?  I  ask  it  as  a  favour  — 
Rupert." 

"  You  are  sure  you  want  me  to  ?  You  are  sure 
it's  wise  ?  I  mean  —  you  know  what  I  mean."  Ru- 
pert, agitated,  dropped  into  his  boyish  manner.  The 
role  of  Joseph  had  always  seemed  to  him  a  grotesque 
one,  and  rather  ill-mannered.  His  sense  of  chivalry 
was  not  confounded  with  morality ;  it  seemed  to  him 
that  if  he  drifted  into  a  position  in  which  a  woman 
offered  herself  to  him,  it  was  boorish  and  priggish 
to  refuse.  She  gave  so  much  more  than  she  asked. 
And  he  had  an  irritating  sense  that  the  adventure 
had  been  left  at  an  impossible  stage  —  it  must  de- 
velop one  way  or  the  other.  Moreover,  he  was  grate- 


186  WHEN  THE   TIDE   TURNS 

ful  to  her  for  not  expecting  an  impromptu  love 
scene.  He  was  excessively  fastidious  in  such  a  mat- 
ter ;  and  love  mingled  with  upholstery  and  the  terror 
of  servants'  footfalls  was  impossible  for  him.  The 
stage  must  be  set,  and  the  limelight  turned  on  very 
full  before  he  could  play  his  part. 

"  I  do  want  you  to  come  very  much."  She  looked 
prettier  than  ever  now  with  her  veil  thrown  back, 
her  face  still  flushed  with  a  genuine,  shy  eagerness. 
Rupert  felt  that  he  would  have  been  a  brute  to  refuse 
considering  everything. 

And  when  he  went  back  at  eight  o'clock  he  knew 
very  well  that  it  rested  with  him  whether  or  not  the 
thing  went  further.  He  was  a  little  cynical  about  it. 
Such  things  seldom  came  his  way;  he  was  too  fas- 
tidious to  buy  pleasure,  and  too  much  occupied  with 
his  work  to  pursue  it  socially  with  that  patient, 
spider-like  assiduity  which  is  necessary  to  success. 
Well,  here  was  a  case  where  there  was  no  sordid 
element;  he  was  asked  to  give  something,  and  some- 
thing was  offered  to  him ;  why  should  he  not  take  it  ? 
And  Mrs.  Lane  seemed  to  be  independent  of  the 
world ;  well,  just  now  she  thought  herself  dependent 
on  him.  And  at  the  back  of  his  mind  —  can  any 
woman  understand  it  ?  —  there  was  a  quite  primitive 
wish,  purely  sexual  and  instinctive,  to  correct  an 
impression  of  innocence  and  inexperience,  to  show 
her  that  he  was  not  such  a  fool  as  he  once  had 
been. 

He  found  her  looking  very  charming  in  a  cream- 


WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS  187 

coloured  lace  gown ;  pearls  on  her  throat  and  in  her 
brown  hair. 

"  How  nice  of  you  to  be  punctual !  "  She  greeted 
him  in  the  most  formal  way.  Evidently  the  game 
was  to  be  played  elaborately,  and  he  fortified  him- 
self with  images  from  the  Arabian  Nights.,  where 
trap-doors  opened  in  the  ground  and  the  wanderer 
found  himself  in  the  presence  of  a  beautiful  lady, 
who  entertained  him  first  with  a  banquet,  and  then 
with  music,  and  then  with  love.  The  banquet  was 
a  really  creditable  little  dinner,  at  which  the  page 
boy,  who  had  recovered  himself  in  the  interval,  was 
reinforced  by  a  parlour-maid,  whose  tow-coloured 
hair,  Eupert  could  not  help  noticing,  was  the  same 
shade  as  a  strand  which  had  adorned  the  unbrushed 
tunic  of  the  page  in  the  afternoon.  It  made  him  a 
little  uncomfortable;  he  wished  he  had  not  noticed 
it;  it  gave  him  a  suspicion  that  the  page  and  the 
parlour-maid  would  banquet  afterwards  on  the  re- 
mains of  the  feast,  and  perhaps,  after  that  —  bah ! 

He  wished  she  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  talk 
about  pictures,  of  which  she  knew  nothing.  He 
grew  visibly  depressed  when  she  spoke  of  the  Acad- 
emy, and  she  thought  he  was  jesting  when  he  said 
he  had  not  been  there.  She  even  rallied  him  dar- 
ingly, and  said  "  Perhaps  they  didn't  hang  your 
picture !  "  He  grew  home-sick  for  a  world  in  which 
people  would  not  be  surprised  that  he  had  not  been 
to  the  Academy  —  a  very  small  world,  but  his  own ! 

She  had  a  box  for  Ginori,  the  new  dancer,  she 
said  —  the  song  and  dance  after  the  Arabian  feast, 


188  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

thought  Rupert  to  himself.  An  electromobile 
whirled  them  to  the  theatre,  and  all  the  time  Mrs. 
Lane  (he  could  not  think  of  her  as  Mildred)  kept 
up  an  idle,  drawling  flow  of  small  talk,  which  would 
have  passed  muster  at  Brighton,  perhaps,  but  to 
Rupert's  ear  it  rang  false.  She  gossiped  of  people 
whom  she  did  not  know,  as  if  no  one  else  knew  them 
either;  and  even  the  gossip  was  incorrect  in  its 
details.  Her  conversation  might  be  summed  up  as 
the  wrong  things  said  in  the  wrong  way  about  the 
wrong  people.  Rupert  wished  that  it  was  time  for 
the  love-making  to  begin,  for  it  would  obliterate 
this  stupid  sensation  of  the  second-rate,  which  made 
her  seem  pathetic  in  his  eyes.  She  had  not  been 
pathetic  in  the  afternoon  when  she  had  kissed  him; 
she  had  been  rather  fine,  indeed;  but  this  anxiety 
to  behave  as  she  thought  he  would  expect,  the  deter- 
mination not  to  be  found  wanting,  was  pathetic,  and 
threw  <^}hill  into  the  ottar-of-rose  atmosphere  which 
Rupert  was  trying  to  maintain  with  his  Arabian 
images. 

But  the  dancer  was  beautiful,  and  some  other  per- 
formers were  amusing,  and  in  their  enjoyment  of 
the  entertainment  they  met  on  common  ground. 
Mildred  was  charming  when  she  laughed,  and 
showed  two  even  rows  of  pearly  teeth;  and  once, 
when  Rupert  had  been  laughing  with  her,  a  sensa- 
tion of  friendliness  towards  her,  of  community  with 
her,  warmed  his  heart,  and  he  turned  and  laid  his 
hand  on  her  knee. 

A   little   sigh   of   pleasure   escaped   through   her 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  189 

parted  lips  —  the  sigh  of  some  one  who  has  reached 
the  end  of  a  journey. 

"Shall  we  go?"  she  asked. 

Rupert  nodded,  and  in  silence  they  went  out,  and 
in  silence  took  their  places  in  the  carriage.  It 
threaded  its  quick  way  through  the  lighted  streets, 
through  those  glaring  contrasts  that  the  night  re- 
veals, when  the  ordinary  toilers  have  gone  home, 
and  the  lords  of  pleasure  and  the  slaves  of  pleasure 
share  the  lamp-lit  world.  She  put  her  hand  in  his, 
and  lay  back  against  the  cushion,  her  head  close  to 
his;  and  she  whispered  her  plans  for  their  happi- 
ness, which  had  been  arranged,  he  could  see,  to  keep 
any  sordid  or  troublesome  element  far  from  him. 
He  was  touched  and  grateful;  her  quiet  intimacy 
was  congenial  to  him  now;  the  sense  of  adventure 
and  escapade  had  gone  from  it  all  for  the  moment. 

The  servants  had  gone  to  bed  when  they  reached 
the  flat.  They  sat  and  talked  a  little  while  —  this 
time  openly  of  the  past,  the  long  violet  nights  on 
the  Alphege,  the  magic  midnight  world  of  Funchal 
bay,  with  its  basket-laden  boats  riding  high  on  the 
glittering  ocean  swell,  its  voices  and  tossing  lanterns, 
the  rhythmic  crash  of  the  surf  on  its  steep  shores. 
.  .  .  And  when  memory  had  done  its  work,  and 
come  and  gone,  another  spirit  came  in;  not  Love 
himself,  but  that  youthful  understudy  of  his  who 
walks  so  quietly  in  the  footprints  of  friendship  and 
old  association,  and  impersonates  the  master  for 
those  who  have  never  known  him;  seeming  to  be 
far  removed  from  Passion,  though  indeed  he  is  only 


190  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

his  milder  brother,  who  went  to  school  later  and  had 
better  advantages. 

When  Rupert  let  himself  quietly  out  into  the 
deserted  streets,  he  could  have  turned  back  again 
and  kissed  her ;  not  out  of  gratitude,  but  out  of  pity. 


IV 

HE  worked  hard  in  his  studio  for  a  day  or  two. 
The  long  grey  Adam  room,  with  its  fine  etchings  and 
rare  furniture,  was  very  congenial  to  him ;  all  about 
him  he  could  feel  the  pulse  of  St.  James's,  and  a  few 
steps  took  him  from  his  world  of  imagination  to 
the  very  unimaginative,  but  nevertheless  congenial, 
world  of  clubs.  He  was  seldom  lonely;  he  worked 
all  the  morning,  and  generally  lunched  at  home; 
in  the  afternoon  he  would  go  to  see  some  picture, 
or  visit  some  studio,  and  later,  perhaps,  pay  a  duty 
call  or  two ;  he  nearly  always  dined  out,  and  would 
sit  with  a  pipe  and  book  for  an  hour  or  so  before 
going  to  bed.  His  week-ends  were  generally  spent 
in  the  country,  or,  if  he  were  in  town,  in  wandering 
about  London,  perhaps  tracing  the  footprints  of 
Wren  in  the  narrow  streets  of  the  city,  when  the  roar 
of  business  was  all  hushed  and  the  high  walls  echoed 
the  voices  and  footfalls  of  the  rare  pedestrians;  or 
wandering  down  the  river,  or  walking  from  one 
unfamiliar  point  to  another,  studying  London  in 
those  inexhaustible  pages  of  hers  of  which  he  never 
grew  tired. 

For  one  week-end  he  journeyed  down  into  Corn- 
191 


192  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

wall  to  stay  with  Lady  Waynefleete  at  Gwithian 
Castle,  one  of  her  late  husband's  seats,  of  which  she 
had  the  use  for  life.  He  was  rather  tired  at  the  end 
of  his  long  train  journey,  and  he  was  glad  to  find 
that  there  were  very  few  people  staying  there,  but 
that  among  them  were  his  friend  Caird  and  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Graeme.  He  had  always  intended  to  call  on 
Mrs.  Graeme,  and  he  looked  forward  to  seeing  some- 
thing more  of  her  in  the  next  few  days. 

Caird  came  into  his  room  while  he  was  dressing 
for  dinner. 

"  Well,  Savage,  my  friend,  and  how  are  you  ?  A 
little  better  already  for  a  whiff  of  this  air,  I  suspect. 
I've  been  out  on  the  cliffs  all  day,  getting  just  drunk 
on  it." 

"  Splendid !  we'll  go  out  together  to-morrow,  and 
talk  about  the  universe.  Any  one  interesting  here  ?  " 

"  I  wouldn't  say  interesting  —  harmless.  Yon 
man  Graeme's  no  good,  except  to  talk  politics;  he 
gets  scared  at  a  little  strong,  plain  Scots  language. 
The  lady's  better,  but  she's  too  witty.  Man,  I'd  have 
all  witty  women  put  in  a  bag  and  drowned.  Her 
ladyship's  the  best  of  the  bunch ;  she  can't  talk  meta- 
physics; but  whiles  she  can  hold  her  tongue.  A 
grand  gift,  that !  " 

Rupert  was  down  early,  and  found  Lady  Wayne- 
fleete sitting  in  the  hall  before  a  wood  fire.  There 
was  a  sea  fog  creeping  up,  and  the  evening  was 
chilly. 

She  greeted  him  warmly,  and  while  they  were  talk- 
ing Mrs.  Graeme  came  in.  She  was  dressed  in  very 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  193 

pale  grey  chiffon,  which  showed  off  her  sombre  hair 
and  the  fine  modelling  of  her  slim,  graceful  shoul- 
ders and  neck.  Rupert  saw  at  once  that  she  was 
a  beautiful  woman,  and  he  was  pleased  when  he 
found  that  he  was  to  take  her  in.  She  was  fol- 
lowed into  the  room  by  her  husband,  a  fresh-looking, 
middle-aged  man  with  a  rather  powerful  face  —  a 
banker,  Rupert  understood  him  to  be.  He  spoke 
with  emphasis,  and  briefly,  but  did  not  seem  very 
interesting.  A  Major  and  Mrs.  Wayne,  relatives 
of  their  hostess;  Miss  Thudichum,  her  companion; 
Caird,  and  the  local  vicar  and  his  wife  completed 
the  party. 

Mrs.  Graeme  took  up  her  conversation  with  Ru- 
pert exactly  where  it  had  been  left  off  a  couple  of 
months  ago,  which,  of  course,  flattered  him;  and 
as  they  sat  down  to  dinner  he  asked  her  if  any  more 
colonels  had  been  admonishing  her  against  him. 

"  ISTo,  no  colonels ;  I've  been  reduced  to  bishops ; 
a  bishop  said  some  quite  intelligent,  rude  things 
about  you  the  other  day,  and  I  was  disappointed 
to  find  he  was  confusing  you  with  some  one  else. 
But  you  aren't  to  talk  about  yourself  —  it's  too  com- 
monplace." 

"What  shall  we  talk  about  —  the  universe?" 
said  Rupert,  looking  at  Caird. 

"  Oh,  not  all  at  once  —  it's  such  a  waste.  A  little 
bit  at  a  time.  You  begin." 

"  Well  —  the  road  to  Damascus." 

"  The  road  to  Damascus  —  what's  that  ?  does  one 
motor  on  it  ?  —  Oh,  I  see." 


194  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

"  What  do  you  see,  Mrs.  Graeme  ?  " 

"  That  sword-blade  on  the  wall  —  association  of 
ideas  —  do  say  I  am  right  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  I  must  give  it  up.  But  it  sounds  charm- 
ing; please  tell  me." 

"  The  road  to  Damascus  is  something  I  am  in- 
venting. I  don't  even  know  that  there  is  one;  but 
there  is  going  to  be  one.  It's  only  a  drawing  I  am 
making  for  Midwood's  poems." 

"  Oh,  the  '  Syrian  Songs  '  —  every  one  is  talking 
about  them,  and  how  wonderful  they  are  going  to 
be  —  Mr.  Midwood  himself  not  the  least  eloquently, 
I  assure  you." 

"  The  road  to  Damascus,"  she  repeated  to  herself, 
and  then  turned  and  looked  with  a  dawning,  delight- 
ful smile  into  Rupert's  eyes.  "  You  know,  it  has 
a  wonderful  sound.  One  can  see  it  —  a  little  dusty, 
but  with  shade  at  the  sides.  Who  goes  on  it  ?  " 

"  All  the  world." 

"  Yes,  of  course  —  some  in  the  sun  and  some  in 
the  shade,  some  on  motor  cars,  and  some  on  sore, 
lame  feet  —  is  that  it  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  and  some  prancing  on  great  horses.  How 
clever  and  nice  of  you  to  see  my  picture." 

"  Wait  a  minute ;  I'm  not  sure  that  I  see  it  all 
—  what  do  they  go  to  Damascus  for  ?  " 

"  What  does  all  the  world  go  anywhere  for  ?  " 

"  To  buy  and  sell  ?  " 

"  Try  again." 

"  To  learn  wisdom  ?  " 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  195 

"  Well,  perhaps  in  a  way.  But  chiefly  to  love 
and  be  loved ;  don't  you  see  ?  " 

"  Yes.  It  isn't  really  commonplace,  though  it 
seems  so  at  first.  But  what  a  happy  thing  to  have 
drawn !  " 

"  I  haven't  drawn  it  yet  —  I  have  only  just  seen 
it ;  you  gave  me  half  of  it  when  you  said,  '  Some 
in  the  sun,  and  some  in  the  shade.'  It  was  the 
tones  in  your  voice,  the  notes  you  spoke  the  words 
on,  that  gave  me  the  idea." 

"  But  how  nice  to  have  a  voice  that  does  all  that. 
I  didn't  know  my  voice  could  draw." 

"  It  can  —  it  will,"  said  Eupert.  "  We  will  teach 
it.  Say  it  again  —  please."  His  merry  grey  eyes 
looked  frankly  into  hers. 

"  Oh,  I  couldn't ;    I  am  much  too  self-conscious." 

"  Yes,  but  please  —  quick ;  while  the  others  are 
still  laughing." 

"  How  you  hurry.    What  am  I  to  say  ?  " 

"  You  know  —  '  some  in  the  — ' : 

"  Some  in  the  sun,  and  some  in  the  shade/'  she 
said,  very  low,  and  with  a  delicious,  reedy  modula- 
tion, her  eyes  laughing  into  his  the  while. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Rupert,  and  turned  to  answer 
a  question  from  the  vicar's  wife. 

He  took  a  childish  pleasure  in  this  little  secret 
understanding  with  her.  He  would  talk  quite  in- 
terestedly to  Mrs.  Verryans  about  the  building  of 
cottages,  knowing  that  he  had  only  to  turn  his  head 
to  enjoy  that  delightful  sense  of  congeniality  that 
he  found  in  Mrs.  Graeme.  Like  all  young  men  of 


196  WHEN  THE  TIDE  TURNS 

his  kind,  he  was  a  little  spoiled  by  women  and 
hostesses;  he  always  expected  to  find  people  both 
pretty  and  amusing  wherever  he  went;  but  there 
was  a  quality  about  this  woman  that  distinguished 
her  from  most  of  her  pretty  and  amusing  sisters. 
He  found  himself  wondering  what  she  thought  of 
him;  concerned  that  she  should  understand  that  he 
could  be  something  other  than  frivolous  if  he  chose. 

He  had  finished  a  long  discussion  with  Mrs.  Ver- 
ryans,  and  had  turned  to  Mrs.  Graeme  again,  but 
she  was  talking  to  Major  Wayne.  Rupert  could  see 
that  she  knew  he  was  waiting  to  speak  to  her,  but 
still  she  went  on,  appearing  to  be  enchanted  with 
the  deadly  monologue  of  the  Anglo-Indian  Major. 

"  Natives,  now ;  you  can't  treat  them  like  white 
men  —  they  wouldn't  understand  it.  All  very  well 
in  their  place  —  d'you  follow  me  ?  But  once  let  'em 
get  their  heads  up,  and  they'd  be  all  over  the  place. 
Why,  even  the  Tommies  despise  them !  " 

"  I  suppose  they  would,"  said  Mrs.  Graeme. 
"  What  do  they  think  of  the  Tommies  ?  " 

"  Oh,  a  native  doesn't  think,"  said  the  soldier, 
rejoicing  in  his  crass  ignorance ;  "  not  paid  to.  We 
do  their  thinking  for  them  —  the  English  are  the 
brains  of  India,  you  know.  And  the  natives  like  it. 
They  need  masters,  and  by  Gad  they've  got  'em." 
He  laughed,  and  drank  some  more  champagne. 

Rupert  saw  his  chance.  "  Some  in  the  shade, 
Mrs.  Graeme,"  he  said  reproachfully. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said,  turning  to  him,  "  but  some 
in  the  sun !  especially  if  they  come  from  a  hot  coun- 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  197 

try.  It  wouldn't  do  to  let  them  catch  cold."  But  she 
went  on  talking  to  him,  which  was  what  he  wanted. 
She  had  that  rare  quality  in  a  pretty  woman,  a  sense 
of  drollery,  and  the  ability  to  express  it;  and  Ru- 
pert felt  that  he  was  great  and  clever,  which  will 
tell  you  much  more  about  her  than  a  long  description. 

"  How  charming  your  friend  is !  "  he  said  to  Lady 
Waynefleete  after  dinner.  "  I  like  her  so  much." 

"  She  is  much  more  than  charming ;  she  is  the 
finest  woman  I  know,"  said  Lady  Waynefleete.  She 
shook  her  head  at  him.  "  I'm  afraid  it  is  no  use, 
Mr.  Savage:  if  you  were  looking  forward  to  an 
agreeable  flirtation,  let  me  tell  you  that,  in  spite  of 
her  camaraderie.,  it  is  not  the  slightest  use." 

"  My  dear  Lady  Waynefleete,  I  hope  I  can  appre- 
ciate a  clever  and  delightful  woman  without  want- 
ing to  flirt  with  her,"  he  answered.  All  the  same  he 
was  a  little  huffed. 

"  Pretty  woman,  Mrs.  Graeme,"  said  Major 
Wayne,  yawning  in  the  smoke-room ;  "  but  not  much 
sense  of  humour.  Now  it's  a  curious  thing;  I've 
knocked  about  a  good  deal,  and  I've  very  seldom 
found  a  pretty  woman  who  had  a  sense  of  hu- 
mour." .  .  . 

"  Women !  "  said  Caird,  who  shared  with  Rupert 
the  benefit  of  the  Major's  remarks ;  "  if  you're  going 
to  talk  about  women,  I'm  for  bed.  Good-night." 

"  Queer  chap,  that ;  Scotch,  I  should  think,"  re- 
marked the  Major ;  and  he  held  Rupert  there  for  an 
hour,  transfixed  with  boredom. 


198  WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS 

The  next  morning,  no  ladies  appearing  at  break- 
fast, Rupert  set  off  with  Caird  for  a  tramp  over  the 
cliffs.  They  went  down  through  the  terraced  gar- 
den, between  the  long  lines  of  the  veronica  hedges, 
through  a  side  gate  to  a  path  that  led  up  one  side 
of  the  valley  in  which  the  pleasure-grounds  lay ;  and 
after  a  steep  climb  they  found  themselves  on  the 
great  flower-carpeted  tableland  whose  edge  is  the 
sheer  drop  of  the  cliffs.  All  about  them  were  the 
fragrance  of  wild  flowers,  the  brightness  of  the  sea, 
and  the  harsh  calling  of  the  gulls;  a  sweet,  windy 
place,  like  the  roof  of  the  world. 

"  There,"  said  Caird,  taking  a  deep  breath  and 
looking  out  to  where  the  dim  blue  headlands  melted 
into  the  haze.  "  There's  line  for  you  —  there's  col- 
our —  there's  something  you  can't  splatter  with  ink 
and  paint !  " 

Rupert  had  thrown  himself  down  on  the  grass. 
"  I  don't  know  that  any  one  wants  to ;  certainly  I 
don't.  But  why  have  you  such  a  contempt  for  my 
trade  ? " 

"  Contempt  ?  Man,  it's  a  great  trade.  It's  a 
great  thing,  this  projecting  of  ideas,  and  impreg- 
nating the  world  with  them  —  a  great  thing !  The 
only  thing  I  sometimes  wonder  is,  if  some  of  you 
realize  how  great  it  is." 

"  I  don't  think  we  underestimate  our  impor- 
tance," said  Rupert,  looking  up  into  the  sky.  "  No ; 
I  don't  think  we  can  be  accused  of  that." 

"  No  ?    Well,  I  accuse  you  of  it." 

"  Explain." 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  199 

"  No  man  can  explain  an  accusation.  But  this  is 
a  condition,  a  state  of  affairs,  something  that  is;  and 
every  condition  has  its  metaphysic ;  I'll  not  say  but 
we  might  expound  the  metaphysic  of  this  thing." 

"  Bless  me,  I  don't  care  what  you  call  it.  Must 
I  talk  Scotch?  Expound  the  metaphysic  of  this 
thing  to  me,  then,  man  Cair-r-rd !  " 

The  older  man  smiled.  "  Come,  then,  why  do 
you  draw  ?  " 

"  Because  I  like  doing  it." 

"  No." 

"  Yes ;   and  because  I  must." 

"  Right.     And  why  must  you  ?  " 

"  Because  it's  the  thing  I  know  I  can  do." 

"  Not  enough.  You  know  you  can  shoot  —  why 
don't  you  shoot  ?  " 

"  Because  —  well  I  suppose  I  draw  for  the  satis- 
faction it  gives  me  to  do  something  well  —  better 
than  other  people.  Because  I  see  things  that  way." 

"  Now  you've  said  it :  because  you  see  things  that 
way ;  because  you  see  life  in  terms  of  your  art  ?  " 

"  Yes.    I  think  that  is  it." 

"Well,  and  it's  just  no  good  —  no  good  at  all. 
All  wrong.  You  are  still  only  learning,  climbing; 
near  the  top  in  this  matter,  I  admit;  perhaps  at 
the  top;  but  that  isn't  the  time  of  power  with  any 
man.  You  are  still  growing,  taking  in,  filling  up, 
turning  life  into  art.  Say  even  you're  at  the  top 
of  fame  and  mastery,  or  very  near  it  —  that  isn't 
the  true  time  of  power.  There's  a  lot  of  nonsense 
talked  about  mature  youth  being  the  time  of  power 


200  WHEN  THE  TIDE  TURNS 

and  influence,  and  age  a  long  decadence.  It  isn't. 
It's  a  decline,  but  that  is  when  the  power  comes." 

Rupert  sat  up,  listening  gravely  to  the  deep,  vi- 
brating emphatic  tones.  "  Go  on.  Say  more ;  I 
haven't  quite  grasped  your  meaning  yet,  as  it  applies 
to  me." 

"  I  say  there's  a  hidden  power  in  you  —  in  every 
man,  but  especially  in  you  —  that  isn't  revealed, 
can't  be  revealed  in  your  work.  Oh,  I  know  your 
work  —  I  know  how  good  it  is.  You've  thrown  this 
flood  of  beauty  on  things  that  were  hidden  before; 
you  have  revealed  new  beauty.  That's  a  great  thing. 
But  there  is  a  greater  coming.  Mere  beauty,  loveli- 
ness ;  well,  that's  youth.  You  can't  go  on  always,  in 
this  world  and  this  age,  making  mere  loveliness. 
There's  something  deeper  for  you  to  find  —  I  want 
you  to  find  it.  I'm  in  a  hurry  for  you  to  find  it !  " 

"  If  one  were  ever  to  find  it,  surely  it  would  be 
when,  as  you  say,  one  was  at  the  top  of  one's  mas- 
tery ?  " 

" No"  thundered  Caird.  "  That's  a  dead  time. 
Youth,  growing-time  is  great ;  decline  is  great ;  but 
the  apex,  the  pause,  is  nothing;  it  is  a  moment 
between  two  great  things.  When  life  has  flowed  in 
upon  you,  saturated  you ;  when  you  have  filled  your- 
self full,  when  you  have  gathered  up  everything  into 
yourself,  when  the  growing  process  is  over,  when  the 
tide  turns  and  you  begin  to  discharge  this  mass  of 
universal  energy  back  into  life,  into  the  open  sea  — 
then  is  your  day  of  power;  when  you  really  influ- 
ence and  impregnate  time  and  the  world !  When  you 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  201 

have  ceased  to  see  life  in  the  terms  of  art,  and  begin 
to  see  art  in  the  terms  of  life,  man,  what  truth  and 
irony  and  power  you'll  get  into  that  message  of 
yours !  " 

There  was  a  few  minutes'  silence.  Then  Rupert 
said,  pulling  at  the  long  grasses :  "  An  inspiring 
thought,  that  about  the  true  power  coming  when 
success  is  over.  For  success  is  not  a  thing  that  can 
last;  it  must  come  to  an  end  sooner  or  later;  and 
yet  behind  it  there  may  lie  this  greater  thing  .  .  . 
yes  .  .  .  and  yet  we  —  I  and  the  other  men  working 
on  the  same  lines  —  it's  rather  against  all  our  ideas 
that  art  is  to  be  applied  to  anything  but  itself,  even 
to  life:  'Art  with  a  purpose'  isn't  exactly  our 
ideal." 

"  Never  mind  your  catchwords,"  said  Caird 
quietly.  "  I'm  not  concerned  with  them,  nor  with 
the  other  men  you  speak  of.  They  aren't  going  to 
have  any  time  of  power,  most  of  them.  Of  all  the 
men  I  met  in  your  rooms  that  night,  I  doubt  whether 
more  than  three  will  be  heard  of  fifty  years  hence 
—  you,  Sibley,  perhaps  Bowen,  and  yon  drunken 
swine  C  adman  for  a  certainty !  " 

"  Not  Midwood  ?  " 

Caird  shook  his  head.  "  Not  Midwood,"  he  said, 
gravely.  "  He  has  gone  up  like  a  rocket,  all  flame 
and  flower;  he's  one  of  your  zenith-men.  He 
doesn't  give  back  to  life  what  he  takes  from  it  — 
he  just  bursts  and  scatters.  They'll  find  the  stick 
of  him  some  day." 

Rupert  was  uncomfortable.     There  was  a  disturb- 


202  WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS 

ing  force  in  Caird's  personality  that  carried  con- 
viction with  what  he  said.  He  felt  an  unwonted 
burden  pressing  on  him  —  a  sense  of  gravity  and 
earnestness  of  life.  And  yet  these  men  were  his 
fellows,  and  shared  with  him  the  eminence  that  they 
all  seemed  to  have  attained  so  easily,  with  so  little 
hard  climbing.  He  looked  at  Caird,  who  was  gazing 
at  the  distant  headland,  and  saw  in  his  lined  face, 
his  grizzled  hair,  the  strength  and  purpose  in  his 
wide  forehead,  firm  jaw,  and  clear-looking  eyes,  evi- 
dence of  years  of  intellectual  struggle  and  pain,  of 
conquest,  of  power.  He  thought  of  Midwood  in  his 
scented,  darkened  rooms  ...  he  wondered. 

Caird  jumped  up.  "  Here  come  the  ladies,  and 
yon  drum-faced  Major  with  them.  I'm  away  to 
smoke  my  pipe  on  the  cliff." 

After  tea  that  afternoon  Rupert  took  Mrs.  Graeme 
to  show  her  a  wonderful  place  he  had  found  —  a 
little  clearing  in  the  sea-wood  at  the  mouth  of  the 
valley,  where  the  turf  was  soft  and  sweet  with 
thyme,  and  where,  between  the  thick  trunks  and 
gnarled  boughs  of  the  elms,  you  could  see  a  sweep 
of  yellow  sands  with  the  surf  spreading  over  them 
in  a  broad  band  of  snow.  "  If  this  were  Ireland  the 
fairies  would  come  and  dance  here,"  he  said ;  "  but 
Wesley  frightened  the  fairies  away  from  Cornwall. 
Listen !  " 

They  sat  on  a  smooth  bank  of  green,  looking  out 
through  the  perspective  of  tree  trunks  to  the  bright- 
ness that  was  the  sea.  It  was  very  still  in  the  wood, 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  203 

but  the  deep  booming  of  the  surf  rose  from  the  shore, 
and  its  overtones  filled  the  wood  with  creeping  har- 
monies, like  the  voice  of  an  organ  in  a  cathedral. 

"  The  echo  of  their  voices  lingers  here  yet,"  she 
said.  "  I  wonder  where  they  have  gone.  Perhaps 
to  Ireland,  perhaps  to  Brittany.  Do  you  think  we 
could  get  them  to  come  back,  just  for  one  day  ?  " 

"  If  they  knew  how  friendly  we  were  to  them  — 
perhaps.  What  would  you  ask  them  for  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  would  ask  for  new  eyes  to  see  with, 
new  ears  to  hear  with,  a  new  voice  to  speak  with." 

"  No,  not  a  new  voice,  please." 

"  Some  in  the  sun,  and  some  in  the  shade  ? "  she 
quoted,  looking  from  the  sea  to  Rupert  and  smiling. 
"  I  am  afraid  you  have  taught  me  a  new  vanity ;  I 
shall  be  always  trying  to  cajole  people  with  my  voice 
now.  Isn't  '  cajole  '  the  right  word  ?  " 

"  I  hope  not.    Let  us  say  '  charm.' ' 

"  Well,  charm.  I  tried  to  charm  some  ideas  about 
Syria  from  Mr.  Verryans,  but  he  would  only  talk 
about  the  bad  hotels  and  the  infidel  churches." 

"  It  must  be  a  terrible  place  in  reality,  swarming 
with  American  humourists  and  Cook's  tours.  We'll 
make  a  better  Syria  than  that." 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  was  doing  this  morn- 
ing?" 

"  I  know  what  you  were  not  doing,  alas !  —  going 
for  a  walk  with  me." 

"  It  was  better  than  that.  I  was  digging  in  the 
library,  and  reading  books  about  —  what  do  you 
think?" 


204  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

"  Indian  administration  ? " 

"  Damascus." 

"  How  very  nice  of  you !  " 

"  So  perhaps  I  shall  meet  you  somewhere  on  the 
road  to  Damascus."  She  said  it  smiling,  and  look- 
ing down  at  some  flowers  she  held  in  her  hand. 

Rupert  wondered  exactly  what  or  how  much  she 
meant;  she  was  not  the  kind  of  woman  likely  to 
give  openings  for  flirtation;  she  was  one  of  those 
rare  women  who  seem,  in  whatever  environment  they 
may  be,  to  he  surrounded  by  their  own  subtle  at- 
mosphere of  grace  and  beauty  and  dignity,  in  which 
the  things  of  the  spirit  open  and  flower,  but  in  which 
the  bare  and  commonplace  dries  up  and  withers. 
He  answered  her  in  the  same  strain. 

"  Perhaps  we  may  even  walk  a  little  way  to- 
gether ?  " 

"  Oh,  no !  "  she  shook  her  head,  still  smiling ; 
"  you  will  be  in  the  sun,  and  I  shall  be  in  the  shade ! 
And  we  shall  be  going  opposite  ways.  You  forget; 
I've  been  to  Damascus  —  this  morning  in  the  li- 
brary," she  added,  turning  her  laughing  eyes  to  his, 
and  then  looking  again  at  her  flowers. 

He  looked  at  her  attentively  and  gravely  —  at  the 
long,  graceful  lines  in  which  her  attitude  spoke  to  his 
eye;  at  the  sweeping,  downcast  eyelids;  at  the 
grave,  beautiful  modelling  of  the  features;  and  he 
spoke  his  thought,  almost  to  himself,  not  heeding 
her :  "  Ah !  I  expect  you  have  been  in  the  very  heart 
of  Damascus.  And  not  alone." 

Perhaps  her  colour  deepened  by  the  faintest  tinge 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  205 

—  lie  was  not  sure.  It  was  her  turn  to  look  grave. 
She  looked  clearly  into  his  eyes.  "  And  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I  have  ever  been  nearer  than  the 
outskirts.  But  I've  seen  its  domes  and  minarets  — 
from  the  desert." 

Her  fastidious  ear  detected  and  resented  the  last 
sentimentality. 

"  You  don't  look  as  if  you  had  wandered  much 
in  the  desert,  you  know,"  she  said  in  a  lighter  tone. 
"  Just  think  —  wasn't  it  from  Mount  Pisgah  you 
saw  it?  I  don't  remember  whether  one  can  see 
Damascus  from  Mount  Pisgah  —  I  must  go  to  the 
library  again;  but  I  daresay  you  could,  with  your 
trained  eye." 

Rupert  felt  that  he  had  been  gently  corrected  for 
something  —  he  could  not  quite  have  told  what. 
"  Well,  you  must  look  out  for  me  on  the  road,"  he 
said. 

"  Oh,  yes.  You  will  be  very  hot,  in  the  sun. 
Perhaps  I  shall  be  carrying  sherbet,  or  a  skin  of 
liquorice  water,  with  a  string  of  bright  brass  saucers 
to  dispense  it  from ;  and  you  will  hear  me  chanting, 
'  O  bountiful  one,  cool  and  refreshing,  purify  thy 
blood.'  And  you  will  stop  all  your  camels  and 
dromedaries,  with  their  bells  and  scarlet  trappings 
and  gold  fringes  hanging  to  their  knees ;  and  your 
Bedawin  will  dismount  and  beat  their  tom-toms, 
and  the  sellers  of  khamio  and  dates  and  parched 
grain  and  sweetmeats  will  come  round  us,  and  we 
will  have  a  feast,  and  watch  the  other  travellers 
riding  or  walking  by." 


206  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

"  And  then  ?  " 

"  And  then  you  will  go  on  to  Damascus ;  and  I 
shall  watch  the  long  train  winding  away,  all  the 
mules  loaded  with  silks  and  carpets,  and  flasks  of 
ottar  and  sandal-wood  oil,  and  henna  and  kohl  and 
rose-water;  and  I  shall  watch  until  it  fades  away, 
and  the  sound  of  the  bells  dies  with  it,  and  there 
is  nothing  but  a  little  whirl  of  golden  desert  dust." 

She  was  leaning  back  a  little,  with  her  hands  on 
the  bank  on  either  side  to  support  her,  and  looking 
out  between  the  tree  trunks  with  the  same  curious, 
far-away  smile  on  her  face. 

"  That  seems  delightful  —  for  me.  But  what 
about  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  forget.     I  shall  be  coming  back  "... 


"  Where  will  you  be  coming  back  from  ?  "  At 
the  sound  of  a  third  voice  both  Kupert  and  Mrs. 
Graeme  started  slightly,  so  absorbed  had  they  be- 
come in  this  little  play  of  the  imagination.  Mr. 
Graeme  had  come  into  the  clearing  behind  them  and 
was  looking  down  at  them  now  with  a  friendly  inter- 
est in  his  intelligent  eyes.  He  was  a  tall  man  with 
a  close,  fair  beard  and  moustache,  and  looked  very 
pleasant  and  distinguished,  Rupert  thought;  still 
he  was  an  interruption. 

"  Coming  back  from  Damascus,  dear  Charles," 
said  his  wife,  looking  up  at  him ;  "  you  haven't  the 
least  idea  what  I  mean,  and  we  shall  not  tell  you  — 
shall  we,  Mr.  Savage  ?  " 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  207 

"  Certainly  not,"  laughed  Rupert,  and  added  mis- 
chievously :  "  I  am  glad  you  are  coming  back,  be- 
cause then  you  might  go  again." 

She  looked  at  him  with  the  gentlest  suggestion  of 
rebuke,  and  then  they  all  three  talked  about  the  view 
until  it  was  time  to  go  back  to  the  castle. 

During  the  rest  of  his  visit  Rupert  got  to  know 
the  Graemes  better,  and  to  like  them  very  much. 
He  found  Mrs.  Graeme  a  little  puzzling  and  elusive 
sometimes,  and  tried  in  vain  to  recover  with  her  the 
intimate  mood  of  that  afternoon.  But  the  more  he 
saw  of  her,  the  more  he  was  aware  of  the  curious 
strength  and  distinction  of  her  personality.  Her 
beauty  was  not  a  sensuous  beauty,  nor  her  charm  a 
sensuous  charm;  one  could  talk  to  her  intimately 
without  that  pre-occupation  of  sex  which  is  at  once 
the  attraction  and  the  monotony  of  so  many  beauti- 
ful women.  And  yet  the  more  Rupert  saw  of  her  the 
more  he  perceived  that  she  was  quite  lovely,  with  an 
almost  classical  loveliness  whose  appeal  was  gradual 
and  cumulative,  like  that  of  a  great  work  of  art. 
And  with  all  her  friendliness  and  humour,  there  was 
an  evident  reserve  of  her  deeper  self  that  added  an 
element  of  puzzling  uncertainty  to  her  apparent 
frankness. 

Charles  Graeme,  her  husband,  treated  her  with  an 
assiduous  and  ceremonious  courtship  that  one  either 
thought  agreeable  or  tiresome  according  as  one  was 
more  interested  in  him  or  in  her.  He  waited  upon 
her,  followed  her,  made  one  of  the  group  of  people 
bidding  for  her  attention,  and  was  treated  by  her 


208  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

with  an  impartiality  that  was  on  the  whole  flatter- 
ing. 

He  was  an  extremely  intelligent  man,  with  a  good 
deal  of  quiet  restrained  strength ;  he  was  a  collector, 
and  had  a  wide  knowledge  of  antique  art;  he  took 
very  little  interest  in  modern  art.  Rupert  liked  him 
better  when  they  were  alone  in  the  smoking-room 
than  when  his  wife  was  present. 


MILDRED  LANE  sat  at  the  Sheraton  desk  in  her 
yellow  drawing-room,  sorting  bills  and  drawing 
cheques.  She  wrote  a  large,  rather  discursive  hand, 
and  her  pen  travelled  over  the  paper  with  quick 
jerks.  When  she  was  engaged  with  accounts  or 
cheque-books  she  knitted  her  brows  and  hardened 
her  mouth;  it  was  her  way  of  being  business-like. 
Beside  her  on  the  desk  lay  a  drawing  of  herself, 
done  by  Rupert  Savage  —  the  drawing  of  a  woman's 
head,  with  the  hair  streaming  loose  about  her  naked 
shoulders.  It  was  not  a  very  good  drawing,  for 
Rupert  had  no  genius  for  portraiture,  and  it  was 
not  signed;  but  once  or  twice  she  would  turn  from 
her  cheque-book,  the  frown  would  fade  from  her 
brow,  the  mouth  would  relax,  and  she  would  kiss 
the  indifferent  likeness  of  herself  with  a  clinging, 
passionate  kiss.  Then  she  would  go  back  to  her 
accounts. 

The  telephone  trilled  on  the  table  beside  her,  and 
she  took  up  the  receiver.  "  Yes  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  all  right, 
thank  you,  dear  —  very  busy  doing  my  accounts." 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  broken  only  by  the 
crackling  of  the  voice  in  the  telephone,  her  face  took 
on  an  expression  of  annoyance,  and  the  furrow  re- 


210  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

appeared  in  her  brow.  But  when  she  spoke  she 
smiled  gaily,  as  though  the  person  at  the  other  end 
could  see  as  well  as  hear. 

"  That  would  be  nice  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  what,  this 
afternoon?  Oh  yes  .  .  .  but  listen,  dear.  Your 
poor  Milly  has  such  a  shocking  headache,  and  she 
was  going  to  be  very  wise  and  go  and  lie  down.  As 
soon  as  she  had  finished  she  was  going  off  to  be 
tucked  up,  and  try  and  sleep  her  headache  away, 
so  as  to  be  all  pretty  and  fresh  for  this  evening. 
Don't  you  think  —  what  ?  .  .  .  Yes,  very  well,  half- 
past  seven.  .  .  .  Poor  dear,  only  a  week  more,  and 
then!  .  .  .  Yes,  very  happy.  Good-bye.  Half -past 
seven." 

She  hung  up  the  receiver  again,  and  sat  looking 
at  the  telephone  with  a  curious  expression  of  detach- 
ment and  dislike,  as  though  it  were  an  animate  be- 
ing. She  waited  thus  for  a  minute,  and  then  took 
up  the  receiver  again,  this  time  laying  her  ear  ca- 
ressingly against  it,  resting  her  chin  on  her  hand, 
and  looking  down  at  the  little  pedestal  with  drooping 
lids.  "  0209  Gerrard,"  she  said,  and  then  waited, 
her  breath  coming  quicker  in  anxiety  lest  she  should 
hear  the  hoarse  drumming  that  meant  delay. 

But  suddenly  her  eyes  lightened,  and  she  spoke 
softly :  "  It's  me."  Then  the  tired  look  came  back 
to  her  face,  a  look  of  resolution  with  it,  but  unhappy 
resolution. 

"  Look  here,  I've  got  something  to  tell  you,  I 
can't  write  it,  or  say  it  into  the  telephone.  Will  you 
come  this  afternoon  at  five  —  just  for  half-an-hour  ? 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  211 

.  .  .  Yes,  very  important  .  .  .  Oh  Rupert,  how 
naughty  you  are!  No,  you  mustn't.  I'll  explain 
.  .  .  no,  I  can't  here  or  now,  but  this  afternoon. 
Don't  be  late.  Good-bye." 

She  put  her  papers  away  with  a  weary  air,  and 
then  went  to  her  room;  when  she  reappeared  an 
hour  later  she  was  very  carefully  but  quietly  dressed, 
and  her  hair  had  been  done  in  a  different  way  — 
not  so  low  over  the  forehead,  not  in  so  many  coils  and 
curves,  but  more  plainly,  less  consciously.  She  sat 
down  on  the  sofa  with  a  book,  but  did  not  read  it; 
but  sat  staring  at  the  wall  opposite  until,  just  as  the 
clock  was  chiming  five,  the  page  announced,  "  Mr. 
Savage." 

He  shook  hands,  and  when  the  door  had  closed, 
bent  over  and  kissed  her  forehead.  "  Why,  you've 
done  your  hair  differently,"  he  said ;  "  I  wonder  if 
I  like  it  as  much  ?  I  don't  believe  I  do." 

"  Never  mind,"  she  said,  gently  pushing  him  into 
a  chair  near  her;  she  was  pleased  that  he  had  no- 
ticed it,  but  she  sighed  all  the  same.  He  saw  that 
something  was  amiss. 

"  Now  what  are  these  terrific  things  you  have  to 
tell  me,"  he  said  lightly ;  "  let's  see  if  we  can't  rob 
them  of  their  terrors." 

"  No ;  it's  something  really  serious  this  time." 
She  was  holding  her  handkerchief  tightly  in  her 
hand.  "  I'm  afraid  you'll  loathe  me." 

Rupert  winced  at  the  exaggeration  of  the  word. 
"  What  nonsense  have  you  got  into  your  head  now  2  " 
he  asked  quietly. 


212  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

"  It  isn't  nonsense.  It's  serious."  She  was  nearly 
crying,  but  was  putting  a  strong  constraint  on  her- 
self. "  Perhaps  you  won't  think  so.  Anyway  I'm 
going  to  be  married  next  week." 

Rupert  jumped  up  as  if  he  had  been  shot. 
"  Ma —  good  God."  He  spoke  very  slowly,  looking 
at  her  with  a  gaze  from  which  she  shrank.  Then 
he  sat  down  again. 

"  Will  you  tell  me  exactly  what  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  —  that  I'm  going  to  be  married 
next  week."  She  looked  on  the  ground,  and  began 
to  speak  more  quickly.  "  I  can't  get  out  of  it  —  I 
don't  know  that  I  want  to;  you  don't  love  me  — 
oh,  I  know  you  like  me  a  little  when  you  are  with 
me,  but  I  don't  belong  to  you.  I'm  outside  all  your 
real  life.  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  that?  And 
you  —  " 

"  Never  mind  me,"  said  Rupert,  interrupting  her 
harshly.  "  What  about  you  ?  How  do  you  stand  ? 
Explain." 

"  I  am  trying  to  explain,  but  you  won't  let  me. 
Don't  look  so  hard  at  me,  please,  Rupert,  don't! 
I'm  trying  hard  not  to  cry  and  make  a  scene,  but 
you  don't  help  me." 

He  sighed.  "  May  I  smoke,"  he  asked,  taking  a 
cigarette  from  the  silver  box.  "  Thank  you.  Now 
I'm  listening."  He  drew  a  long  breath,  and  the 
smoke  curled  about  his  head. 

"  He's  much  older  than  me.  He  has  known  me 
for  ages,  and  wanted  me,  but  I  couldn't  bear  him 
then.  When  my  mother  died  he  was  kind  to  me, 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  213 

and  took  me  for  a  journey  in  France  and  Ger- 
many." 

Rupert  turned  and  looked  at  her,  and  then  looked 
away  again. 

"  Oh  no,  nothing  of  that  sort.  You  don't  under- 
stand; he  was  old  enough  to  be  my  father,  and  I 
didn't  love  him." 

"  And  you  went  a  trip  with  him  on  the  Conti- 
nent ;  I  quite  understand,"  said  Rupert  sarcastically. 
"  May  I  ask  the  name  of  this  fortunate  gentleman  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  it  concerns  you,"  she  answered, 
with  a  certain  dignity ;  "  certainly  not  when  you 
ask  like  that.  Oh,  Rupert,  you  are  so  clever  about 
other  people;  won't  you  try  to  understand  me? 
Don't  you  see  how  miserable  I  am  ? " 

He  lit  another  cigarette.  "  I  am  sorry  if  I  hurt 
you  —  I  didn't  mean  to  do  that.  But  I  still  don't 
understand." 

"  And  it  is  really  very  simple.  Ask  some  of  your 
clever  women  friends ;  they  would  understand,"  she 
said  bitterly.  "  This  man  was  always  asking  me 
to  marry  him,  and  he  was  always  very  kind,  and 
never  really  bothered  me,  or  tried  to  make  love  to 
me.  And  then  the  mines  that  nearly  all  my  mother's 
money  was  in  failed,  and  I  didn't  know  what  I  had 
or  hadn't ;  and  he  arranged  things  for  me,  and  when 
I  left  Brighton  he  gave  me  this  flat.  I  had  no  other 
friends." 

"  What,  this  is  his  flat  ?  " 

"  In  a  way,  yes  —  he  gave  it  to  me." 

"  Who  pays  the  bills  2  " 


214  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

"  He  does.' 

Rupert  threw  his  cigarette  into  the  fire-place  and 
rose  from  his  chair,  white  with  indignation. 

"  And  you  let  me  come  here,  on  the  terms  I  did, 
knowing  nothing,  believing  that  the  house  was  your 
own,  and  all  the  time  you  were  another  man's  paid 
mistress !  " 

"  How  dare  you  ?  "  she  said,  clenching  her  hands 
angrily.  "  How  dare  you  say  that,  you  coward ! 
It  isn't  true.  I'm  not  his  mistress,  and  never  have 
been." 

"  Then  it's  all  the  worse  —  oh,  a  thousand  times 
worse."  He  began  to  walk  up  and  down  with  short, 
angry  strides.  "  He  trusts  you,  he's  going  to  marry 
you;  he  seems  to  have  behaved  like  a  gentleman 
all  the  time;  he's  been  your  best  friend;  he's  stood 
between  you  and  the  world  —  and  you  —  ah !  "  He 
made  a  gesture  of  unutterable  contempt.  "  And 
then  look  at  me,"  he  went  on,  turning  to  her ;  "  I've 
eaten  his  food,  I've  drunk  his  wine,  and  —  good 
God,  you've  treated  him  simply  damnably,  and 
you've  made  me  treat  him  damnably !  " 

As  his  anger  rose,  she  grew  calmer,  and  looked 
at  him  with  a  steady  scrutiny,  as  though  she  were 
revolving  something  in  her  mind. 

"  Listen,"  she  said,  speaking  gravely  and  ear- 
nestly, and  with  a  quiet  dignity  that  arrested  Ru- 
pert's attention.  "  I  understand  all  you  feel,  and 
I  am  very,  very  sorry.  But  it  is  not  as  you  say. 
Neither  you  nor  I  have  hurt  him.  What  has  hap- 
pened between  you  and  me  won't  affect  him,  because 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  215 

there  will  be  nothing  of  that  sort  between  us  — 
except  just  at  first,  perhaps,"  she  added  a  little  con- 
fusedly. "  You  don't  know  him  —  he  isn't  that 
sort ;  he  wants  my  companionship  —  that  is  all.  I 
was  lonely,  I  wanted  love;  I  read  about  you,  saw 
your  work;  I  remembered  how  dear  and  nice  you 
used  to  be.  I  had  this  grey  vista  sketching  before 
me,  of  being  the  housekeeper  (for  that's  all  it  is) 
of  an  elderly  man,  who  is  more  like  a  child  than 
a  man  —  to  whom  I  shall  have  to  behave  like  a  kind 
nurse  —  who  will  treat  me  like  an  indulgent  uncle. 
And  then  I  saw  you,  and  it  all  happened  so  quickly 
—  I  never  thought,  I  just  drifted.  I  saw  the  grey- 
ness  closing  about  me,  and  you  in  the  sunshine  out- 
side. I'd  never  had  any  real  love  —  I  wanted  it 
just  for  a  moment,  before  it  was  too  late!  For, 
although  perhaps  you  won't  believe  me,  I  intend  to 
be  a  faithful  wife  to  him  when  we  are  married." 

Rupert  was  sobered;  he  was  no  less  horrified  at 
the  situation  than  before,  but  he  began  to  see  that 
she  was  a  different  being  from  him;  that  there 
might  be  elements  in  the  situation  that  he  did  not 
understand.  With  a  gesture  half  pitying,  half  ask- 
ing for  forgiveness,  he  put  out  his  hand  and  touched 
hers. 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "  And  don't  you  see," 
she  went  on,  "  that  it's  I  who  pay  ?  Do  you  think 
I  haven't  known,  when  we  have  been  together,  that 
your  love  was  only  momentary,  that  it  was  founded 
on  nothing  deep ;  that  the  biggest  part  of  you  was 
never  anywhere  near  me  ?  I've  tried  to  pretend  and 


216  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

to  forget,  but  I've  known  it  all  the  time.  And  do 
you  think  I  won't  pay  —  next  week  and  after  ?  Do 
you  think  I  can  see  your  contempt  and  hatred  with- 
out paying  ?  If  you  think  me  such  a  criminal,  com- 
fort yourself  with  that  —  that  I've  paid  all  the  time, 
and  will  always  pay." 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  said  Rupert  heavily.  "  But  it 
doesn't  comfort  me  that  you  should  suffer.  I'm 
only  puzzled ;  it  is  such  a  tangle.  I  think  you  ought 
to  tell  him." 

She  smiled  tearfully.  "  That  would  be  very  kind, 
wouldn't  it?  To  spoil  his  one  chance  of  happiness, 
and  make  him  miserable  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 
You  don't  know  him,  you  see.  He  wouldn't  under- 
stand ;  he  would  only  be  terribly  hurt." 

"  But  still,  can  you  go  to  him  with  all  this  decep- 
tion hanging  round  your  neck  ?  " 

"  Women  have  to  do  worse  things  than  that.  I 
can,  because  I  must."  She  smiled  a  little  bitterly. 
"  It  is  very  like  a  man  to  say  '  can  you  ?  *  It  is  part 
of  the  payment  for  my  little  hour  of  sunshine." 

Rupert  looked  at  her  gravely  and  eagerly.  "  Look 
here,  if  I  said  anything  hard  or  wounding  at  first, 
forgive  me.  I  think  you  —  we  —  made  a  terrible 
mistake,  but  I  do  see  that  it's  you  who  pays  for  it. 
But  if  only  I  could  be  sure  that,  in  spite  of  every- 
thing, we  oughtn't  to  tell  him!  Even  if  he  cut  up 
rough  —  well  —  would  you  marry  me  ?  " 

She  put  her  hands  quickly  before  her  eyes.  "  Oh, 
don't,  don't,  —  don't  tempt  me,"  she  cried.  "  If 
you  only  knew !  "  She  kept  her  eyes  covered  for  a 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  217 

minute,  and  then,  with  a  great  effort  of  lightness, 
said,  "  No  thank  you,  friend  Rupert ;  no  more 
tangles,  please.  As  for  him,  if  you  could  once  see 
him,  you  would  understand  how  impossible  and 
wicked  it  would  be  to  tell  him !  " 

There  was  a  sound  in  the  passage  outside,  and 
she  darted  a  look  of  something  like  terror  at  Rupert. 
At  the  same  moment  she  made  a  light,  swift  move- 
ment across  the  room,  and  covered  over  the  drawing 
of  herself  that  was  on  the  writing-table.  The  page 
opened  the  door.  "  Mr.  Elias,  madam,"  he  said. 

Rupert,  who  had  seen  Mildred's  agonized  look 
and  hurried  movement  without  understanding  them, 
rose  and  turned  round  with  a  premonition  of  trag- 
edy. 

A  little,  grey,  dapper  man  of  about  fifty-five  was 
coming  forward.  His  cheeks  were  rosy  like  a 
child's,  and  he  held  a  bunch  of  flowers  in  his  hand. 
His  face  was  wreathed  in  smiles  as  he  bent  over 
Mildred's  hand  with  an  old-fashioned  air  of  gal- 
lantry. 

"  And  how  is  her  ladyship  ?  "  he  asked,  in  happy, 
silky  tones.  "  Will  she  deign  to  accept  these  offer- 
ings ? " 

"  Oh,  Edward,  how  kind !  Do  you  know  Mr. 
Savage?  —  Mr.  Elias." 

"  Mr.  Rupert  Savage  —  the  famous  Mr.  Rupert 
Savage  ? "  asked  the  little  man  with  an  elaborate 
bow.  "  I  am  indeed  honoured,  sir.  Your  name  is 
very  well  known  to  me  —  ahem  —  painting,  I 
think  ?  To  make  a  personal  acquaintance  with  your 


218  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

works  is  a  pleasure  still  in  store  for  me;  in  the 
meantime  —  delighted,  delighted !  " 

Rupert  felt  like  some  one  who  has  been  inter- 
rupted by  a  child  in  the  middle  of  a  serious  discus- 
sion. He  had  no  feeling  at  all  about  Mr.  Eli  as, 
whom  he  tried  to  respond  to  in  his  own  vein;  he 
seemed  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  man  they  had 
been  talking  about;  it  was  impossible  to  associate 
him  with  tragedy  of  any  kind.  Mildred  treated 
him  with  a  kind  of  pretty,  maternal  kindness,  which 
enchanted  him. 

In  a  few  minutes,  Rupert,  who  had  been  talking 
as  though  in  a  dream,  rose  to  go. 

"  Any  friend  of  Mrs.  Lane's,"  said  Mr.  Elias,  in 
his  silky  tones,  bowing  and  smiling  again,  "  even  if 
he  bore  a  less  distinguished  name  than  that  of  Mr. 
Rupert  Savage,  would  always  be  sure  of  a  welcome 
from  me.  I  trust  we  shall  see  more  of  you,  Mr. 
Savage,  when  we  —  ah,  return  to  town !  " 

Mildred  touched  his  hand  with  her  fingers.  As 
the  door  closed  behind  him,  Rupert  was  not  sure 
whether  it  had  closed  on  a  comedy  or  a  tragedy; 
but  he  was  heartily  glad  to  have  made  his  own  exit. 

He  went  to  a  joyful  and  unregenerate  dinner  of 
the  Twelve  that  night,  held  in  a  Fleet  Street  tavern, 
and  pontificated  with  a  brilliant  vivacity  on  the  art 
and  manners  of  the  day. 


VI 

THE  London  season  was  unusually  busy  and  bril- 
liant that  year,  and  prolonged  itself  far  into  the 
summer.  It  was  remarkable  for  the  place  that  in- 
tellect and  the  conscious  cult  of  beauty  held  in  it. 
Quite  independently  of  Royalty  and  Politics,  those 
greater  suns  round  which  the  inner  social  system  re- 
volves and  whose  influence  extends  far  out  into  the 
unlighted  space  of  suburban  and  provincial  life,  the 
small  constellation  of  genius  and  talent  shone  un- 
usually bright  that  year,  moving  in  its  own  orbits, 
and  in  a  sense  giving  the  season  its  individual  char- 
acter. There  was  many  a  great  house,  glowing 
nightly  with  the  social  illumination  that  a  multitude 
of  small  people,  properly  amalgamated,  can  produce, 
which  borrowed  no  lustre  from  lately-risen  stars, 
and  many  a  famous  hostess  whose  dinner  parties 
were  no  less  brilliant  and  important,  because  their 
names  were  hardly  ever  mentioned ;  but  that  is  only 
another  way  of  saying  that  even  the  small  world  of 
metropolitan  society  is  a  wide  world,  and  consists 
not  of  one  but  of  many  social  systems,  linked  here 
and  there  by  stars  that  are  interchangeable,  and 
revolve  now  in  one  orbit,  now  in  another. 

In  that  particular  planetary  system  that  deter- 

219 


220  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

mined  what  o'clock  it  was  in  matters  of  art  and 
lively  intellect  there  was  a  remarkable  activity  that 
year  —  a  sense  of  life  and  exhilaration,  a  conscious 
and  deliberate  cultivation  of  beauty  that  made  a 
delightful  excitement  for  people  who  were  beautiful 
themselves,  or  who  made  and  studied  and  expounded 
beautiful  things.  There  was  necessarily  a  great  deal 
of  charlatanism  and  nonsense,  and  many  a  good  word 
got  sadly  abused;  self-indulgence  became  Paganism, 
and  unashamed  sensuality,  provided  it  was  crowned 
with  flowers  and  peppered  with  intellect,  was  called 
the  Greek  view  of  life.  Not  to  avow  oneself  a  Pagan, 
and  not  to  hold  the  Greek  view  of  life,  was  in  cer- 
tain circles  to  write  oneself  down  as  hopelessly  dull 
and  out  of  date. 

Nevertheless  this  current  of  quickened  enjoyment 
drew  its  life  from  a  very  real  movement  of  the  heav- 
enly bodies,  and  notably  from  that  conjunction  of 
the  intellectual  and  plastic  arts  that  had  given  the 
Twelve  their  place  and  reputation.  Among  them 
they  supplied  the  material,  itself  sound  and  beauti- 
ful, if  not  always  very  well  seasoned,  out  of  which 
such  a  palace  of  affectations  and  insincerities  came 
to  be  built.  Winstanley's  epigrams  were  on  people's 
lips,  just  as  Cadman's  enamels  (when  they  could 
afford  them)  adorned  their  persons  and  their  rooms; 
Jeyne's  Utopias,  which  seemed  to  promise  oppor- 
tunities for  a  freer  indulgence  in  Paganism  and  the 
Greek  view  of  life,  were  discussed  with  pretty, 
knitted  brows,  and  formed  the  subjects  of  afternoon 
lectures  in  smart  hotels,  where  afterwards  tea  and 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  221 

absinthe  could  be  sipped  in  leaf-shaded  courtyards, 
and  the  Greek  view  of  life  expounded  to  the  splash 
of  fountains  and  the  voluptuous  yearning  tones  of 
violins.  It  was  the  right  thing  to  have  an  original 
Savage  or  two  in  great  white  frames  in  your  draw- 
ing-room, just  as  it  was  necessary  to  have  Marston's 
last  novel  bound  in  faded  yellow  or  green  on  your 
table. 

Most  of  these  things  were  well  worth  having  and 
doing  and  enjoying;  but  it  seemed  to  be  impossi- 
ble to  have  them  or  do  them  in  moderation.  There 
was  something  about  them  that  seemed  to  kill  the 
effect  of  the  older,  slower,  more  patient  and  less  arro- 
gant work ;  you  could  not  hang  a  picture  of  Bowen's 
in  the  same  room  with  a  Romney  —  and  the  Romney 
went.  If  one  of  Gaston  St.  Paul's  macabre  tone- 
poems  preceded  a  Beethoven  symphony  at  an  after- 
noon concert,  the  room  half-emptied  before  the  sym- 
phony began ;  if  the  symphony  was  first,  half  the 
audience  came  late.  Because  the  Philistine  critics 
called  Rupert  Savage's  work  morbid,  and  the  erotic 
arabesques  of  Midwood  unclean,  terrible  little  peo- 
ple tried  to  draw  morbidly,  horrible  little  people 
tried  to  write  uncleanly  —  and  with  success.  The 
work  of  these  men  began  to  have  a  quite  false  and 
unholy  fascination  for  people  who  could  never  have 
even  begun  to  understand  it;  and  these  were  the 
people  who  began  to  clamour  and  disgust  the  dull, 
sane  world  with  what  had  inspired  their  nastiness. 

The  last  man  to  realize  anything  of  all  this  was 
Rupert  Savage.  Much  as  he  loved  critical  apprecia- 


222  WHEN  THE  TIDE  TURNS 

tion,  he  was  entirely  indifferent  to  the  applause  of 
the  crowd,  and  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  doubt 
that  all  his  fellow-artists  were  the  same.  He  moved 
about  in  the  light,  in  the  excitement,  in  a  stimu- 
lating world  of  intelligence  and  appreciation;  he 
crossed  and  recrossed  the  orbits  of  his  fellow-stars, 
always  striking  fire  and  light  from  the  meeting.  If 
he  met  Edmund  Heath  in  Regent  Street,  and  they 
stopped  for  a  moment  to  talk,  it  seemed  as  though 
the  gay  vista  of  Regent  Street  had  been  suddenly 
prepared  to  be  a  setting  for  their  words;  the  sun 
shone  for  him,  the  twinkling  lights  of  Westminster 
under  a  haze  of  violet  were  beautiful  for  him; 
Joachim  played  divinely,  Marchesi  sang  supremely 
for  him;  the  waving  banner  of  Die  Meistersinger 
or  the  black  flag  of  Tristan  und  Isolde  were  unfurled 
for  him  at  Covent  Garden. 

He  told  Caird  of  this  sense  of  joy  and  possession 
in  everything  around  him  one  day  when  they  were 
walking  in  Kensington  Gardens.  Caird's  eyes 
flashed,  and  he  flung  out  an  arm  towards  the  palace- 
like  illusion  of  houses  in  Lancaster  Gate  floating  in 
the  haze  above  the  Serpentine. 

"  Gilead  is  mine,  and  Manasseh  is  mine ;  Moab 
is  my  washpot,  and  over  Edom  will  I  cast  out  my 
shoe !  "  he  said  in  his  deep  voice.  "  It  is  right  to 
feel  like  that ;  it  is  the  feeling  of  a  God.  All  these 
things  are  nothing,  if  they  are  not  yours  and  mine." 

Rupert  had  called  at  the  Graemes'  house  in  Cur- 
zon  Street  not  long  after  his  visit  to  Gwithians.  He 


WHEN  THE  TIDE  TURNS  223 

had  decided  to  go,  and  then  put  off  going,  several 
days  in  succession;  he  did  not  quite  know  why,  for 
he  was  looking  forward  with  unusual  pleasure  to 
seeing  Mrs.  Graeme  in  her  own  house;  perhaps  he 
wanted  to  savour  the  pleasure  in  anticipation  and 
not  to  realize  it  too  soon.  At  any  rate,  when  he 
found  that  she  was  not  in  town,  that  she  and  her 
husband  were  travelling  in  Norway,  and  would  be 
away  the  whole  of  the  summer,  he  turned  away  with 
a  singular  sense  of  blankness  and  disappointment. 
He  realized  how  much  he  had  wanted  to  see  her, 
and  felt  almost  angry  with  her  for  being  away ;  how 
foolish  to  leave  town  now,  just  when  everything  was 
most  interesting.  He  had  been  looking  forward  to 
talking  over  his  work  with  her  —  a  thing  he  hardly 
ever  did  with  women  now;  how  tiresome  of  her! 
Probably  it  was  Graeme,  confound  him !  And  she 
would  miss  the  "  Modern  Artists,"  in  which  would 
be  some  of  his  latest  work  —  and  one  thing  espe- 
cially that  he  had  just  finished,  and  that  he  wanted 
her  to  see  before  he  sent  it  in.  Damn  everything! 

But  everything  refused  to  be  damned,  and  Rupert 
had  no  time  to  miss  any  one  very  much,  although 
often  the  remembrance  that  Mrs.  Graeme  was  not 
in  London  gave  him  a  sense  of  blankness,  like  that 
which  he  had  experienced  in  Curzon  Street.  But 
he  was  always  on  the  rush  —  working  hard  in  the 
mornings,  lunching  and  dining  out,  seeing  people 
and  plays  and  pictures,  hearing  talk  and  music,  day 
after  day.  It  was  in  that  season  that  Marston's 
"  Bond  Street  Papers "  came  out,  and  made  their 


224  WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS 

delicate  little  mark  on  the  sands  of  time;  it  was 
then  that  Bowen  began  his  great  series  of  caricatures, 
which  have  commemorated  so  many  people  who 
would  otherwise,  and  deservedly,  have  been  forgot- 
ten. And  the  culmination  of  all  these  artistic  events 
was  the  "  Modern  Artists "  exhibition,  in  which 
everything  that  was  new  and  courageous  and  confi- 
dent and  arrogant  and  sure  of  itself  in  modern  paint- 
ing had  a  place.  Paris  and  Munich  sent  their  latest 
and  most  interesting  experiments;  there  were  some 
hopeless  American,  and  some  hideous  German,  and 
some  wonderful  French  contributions ;  but  the  day 
after  the  private  view  it  was  acknowledged  that  the 
most  interesting  and  probably  the  most  important 
thing  was  the  one  drawing  that  Rupert  Savage  had 
sent,  and  which  was  called  "  A-minor." 

It  was  in  a  vein  entirely  new  to  him.  It  waa 
merely  the  head  and  shoulders  of  a  woman  in  a 
modern  hat  and  veil,  and  a  suggestion  of  lace  and 
chiffon  and  gems  about  the  neck;  the  pose  of  the 
head  suggested  an  attitude  of  listening.  What  was 
curious  was  that  the  face  was  hidden  behind  a  veil 
that  came  down  between  mouth  and  nose,  cutting 
across  the  face  with  a  sharp  line  —  an  impossible 
treatment,  every  one  would  have  said.  The  face 
looked  as  though  it  had  been  carefully  drawn  first, 
and  then  hidden  behind  the  veil,  which  was  drawn 
with  the  wonderful  gossamer  pen-strokes  of  which 
Rupert  Savage  seemed  to  possess  the  secret.  There 
was  a  suggestion  of  downcast  eyes  and  delicate 
moulding  of  the  face  behind  the  veil.  In  one  corner 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 


225 


was  the  tiny  drawing  of  an  angel,  in  the  other  a 
sinister  and  loathsome  devil,  both  done  with  a  deli- 
cacy and  an  appearance  of  carelessness  that  con- 
cealed consummate  mastery  of  the  grotesque.  Un- 
derneath was  the  legend 


.  Jfltgro  affetuato 


There  was  a  breadth  and  simplicity  of  conception 
in  it  that  was  new  in  Rupert  Savage's  work.  There 
was  an  extraordinary  suggestion  of  melancholy  in 
it,  too,  of  sombreness  even ;  but  it  was  a  human 
melancholy,  and  lacked  that  touch  of  the  diabolic 
that,  combined  with  his  magnificent  drawing,  had 
made  the  artist's  reputation.  It  puzzled  every  one 
• —  it  was  unexpected ;  and  not  every  one  was  agreed 
even  about  its  merits  at  first. 

Steinman  and  Sibley  had  met  opposite  it  at  the 
private  view. 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is,"  said  Steinman ;  "  this  is 
no  good.  The  public  won't  pay  our  friend  for  this 
kind  of  thing  —  a  portrait  with  the  face  blacked 
out !  It's  cheap.  Do  you  know  what  I  should  write 
under  it  ?  Just  one  word,  '  Finish  '  —  isn't  it  ? 
That's  the  end  of  Rupert  Savage." 

"  Suppose  it  were  the  beginning  ? "  said  Sibley 
musingly,  and  screwing  up  his  eyes  at  the  drawing. 


226  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

"  I  admit  it  looks  like  one  or  the  other  —  but  I  don't 
think  it's  the  end  of  anything,  with  that  drawing  in 
it.  Look  at  those  two  lines  —  why,  look  at  the  pat- 
tern woven  into  that  veil !  " 

"  Yes,  but  what  is  it  all  about  ? "  asked  Stein- 
man.  "  You  don't  want  breadth  in  black  and  white ; 
you  want  detail  —  all  the  detail  you  can  cram  in, 
isn't  it  ? " 

"  Never  mind  what  it's  about.  What  has  that 
got  to  do  with  anything?  It's  beautiful!  Those 
lines  tell  me  what  it  is  about  —  I  could  look  at  them 
for  hours." 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  my  boy ;  I  may  not  know 
much  about  pictures,  but  I  know  about  markets,  and 
if  my  friends  wanted  to  realize  their  money,  I  should 
say,  '  Sell  Rupert  Savages.' ' 

"  Ah,"  smiled  Sibley.  "  That  is  another  matter ; 
no  doubt  you  are  right." 

But  for  once  he  was  not  right.  The  beautiful, 
mysterious  "  A-minor  "  was  talked  about ;  the  illus- 
trated papers  had  weird  reproductions  of  it,  with 
a  portrait  of  Schumann  in  one  corner  of  the  page 
and  of  Rupert  Savage  in  another ;  people  who  loved 
music  and  did  not  care  for  drawing  went  to  see  it 
in  shoals,  and  when  the  A-minor  concerto  was  next 
played  in  London,  the  audience  was  augmented  by 
many  earnest  artistic  souls  who  did  not  care  for 
music.  The  musical  people  looked  disappointed  at 
the  exhibition,  and  the  painting  people  looked  puz- 
zled at  the  concert.  The  drawing  was  not  for  sale ; 
it  was  entered  in  the  catalogue  as  "  lent  by  the  Count- 


WHEN  THE  TIDE  TURNS  227 

ess  of  Waynefleete,"  but  no  one  remembered  hav- 
ing seen  it  in  her  house. 

Coulson,  the  pope  of  academic  criticism  in  Lon- 
don, who  had  hitherto  held  out  against  Rupert  and 
his  school,  regarding  them  as  clever  but  mischievous 
children,  placed  the  pinnacle  on  Rupert's  reputation 
by  devoting  a  long  paragraph  to  a  pompous,  grudg- 
ing admission  that  his  work  was  serious  and  im- 
portant. He  ended  a  contemptuous  notice  of  the 
exhibition  by  saying: 

"  Amid  this  melancholy  array  of  perverted  tal- 
ents, and  in  a  world  of  artistic  anarchy  in  which 
laws  are  only  recognized  in  order  to  be  broken,  and 
the  canons  of  good  taste  admitted  only  that  they 
may  be  outraged;  in  which  the  patient  servitude 
to  their  art  of  the  classical  painters  is  replaced  by 
a  total  disregard  of  artistic  economy  and  an  almost 
impudently  facile  craftsmanship  that  presumes  to 
dominate  the  whole  cosmos  of  art,  we  were  agreeably 
disappointed  by  the  excellent  drawing  which  Mr. 
Rupert  Savage  has  permitted  himself  to  entitle 
1  A-minor.'  We  regret  the  affectation,  but  we  can- 
not deny  the  beauty  of  the  conception  nor  the  sound- 
ness of  the  workmanship.  We  understand  that  Mr. 
Savage  has  earned  a  considerable  reputation  among 
those  connoisseurs  of  two  continents  who  take  pleas- 
ure in  all  that  is  new  and  strange  in  art;  and  if 
that  is  the  case  he  is  the  more  to  be  commended  for 
having  apparently  surmounted  the  obstacles  which 
his  friends  have  put  in  his  way.  There  is  nothing 


228  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

morbid  or  unpleasant  in  this  work,  which  could  much 
more  modestly  and  truthfully  have  been  entitled 
simply,  '  A  Study  in  Black  and  White/  We  need 
not  concern  ourselves  here  with  the  subject  of  it, 
which  has  been  more  than  sufficiently  discussed; 
Mr.  Savage,  it  seems,  could  not  tear  himself  away 
from  the  custom  of  his  school,  nor  forego  that  sea- 
soning of  interest  derived  from  some  other  art,  with 
which  the  '  Modern  Artists '  like  to  spice  their  work. 
Usually  it  is  literature;  in  this  case  we  have  music 
dragged  in  by  the  heels  in  order  to  invest  with  mys- 
tery an  otherwise  straightforward  piece  of  work, 
and  to  vitiate  a  composition  which,  left  to  speak  for 
itself,  would  proclaim  its  author  to  be  the  possessor 
of  technique  so  masterly  as  almost  to  earn  for  him 
the  oft-claimed,  rarely-earned  title  of  Genius." 

This  ponderous  tribute  was  hailed  by  the  Twelve 
as  their  greatest  triumph,  much  as  they  despised 
the  writer  of  it.  The  securing  of  his  scalp  was,  in 
their  eyes,  Rupert's  greatest  achievement;  and  he 
could  not  help  feeling  more  than  a  little  elated  by 
it  himself,  for  Coulson,  narrow,  conservative,  un- 
sympathetic as  he  was,  was  bluntly  and  incorruptibly 
honest,  and  his  knowledge  of  the  art  of  every  day 
except  his  own  was  undisputed.  It  was  for  Rupert 
the  culminating  point  of  a  season  of  hard  work, 
feverish  mental  activity,  and  brilliant  success.  He 
seemed  to  have  reached  the  top  of  a  long  hill,  and 
to  be  able  at  last  to  breathe  freely  and  look  about 
him  a  little.  He  wanted  to  rest  from  work;  he  had 


WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS  229 

a  longing  for  idleness,  for  pleasures  of  a  different 
kind  from  that  which  London  offered  him.  He  was 
feeling  lonely  again,  in  spite  of  his  popularity. 
Since  the  episode  with  Mrs.  Lane,  which  had  made 
a  deep  impression  on  him,  and  to  which  he  looked 
back  with  a  kind  of  wondering  disgust,  he  had  been 
more  self-contained,  and  had  not  given  himself  so 
freely  as  of  old  to  chance  intimacies,  however  agree- 
able. 

Caird  was  in  Scotland,  Sibley  and  Bowen  were 
in  Paris,  Lady  Waynefleete  was  in  Austria,  Mid- 
wood  became  more  and  more  artificial  and  affected, 
and  was  less  and  less  agreeable  in  company.  When 
he  did  go  out,  he  simply  performed  all  the  time,  or, 
if  he  could  not  dominate  his  environment,  sulked 
and  was  sarcastic.  Rupert  was  sitting  rather  dis- 
consolately in  his  studio  one  hot  day  towards  the 
end  of  July  when  a  note  came  from  Lady  Angela 
Steinman  inviting  him  to  join  them  on  their  yacht 
the  next  week  for  a  voyage  to  the  Baltic ;  they  might 
go  to  Norway  later,  she  said. 

He  looked  out  across  the  green  of  the  park,  now 
shabby  and  dirty,  and  thought  of  the  crisp  foaming 
of  waves  out  on  the  cool  sea.  He  had  a  sudden 
hunger  for  the  sea;  if  the  Maid  of  Lorne  had  been 
in  existence  he  would  have  gone  to  Ireland  and  made 
her  his  companion  in  his  old  sea  haunts.  But  the 
Maid  of  Lorne  was  rotting  in  thirty  fathoms,  and 
in  any  case  his  aunt  was  not  at  the  Abbacy,  and  the 
home  was  shut  up.  He  might  just  as  well  go  with 
the  Steinmans  —  they  were  friendly  and  harmless. 


230  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

It  would  be  a  change.  Besides,  the  Graemes  were 
in  Norway.  .  .  .  Norway  was  a  place  to  see.  He 
wrote  a  note  of  acceptance,  and  told  Hicks  to  look 
out  some  yachting  things. 


VII 

"  DEAK  LADY  WAYNEFLEETE,  —  I  see  that  you 
are  back  in  town,  and  I  want  to  know  if  you  will 
come  and  have  tea  with  me  on  Wednesday.  I  have 
been  in  Paris,  and  brought  back  a  Diaz  that  is  really 
wonderful,  and  I  don't  feel  that  it  is  really  mine 
until  I  have  shown  it  to  you.  It  is  a  perfect  gem 
of  colour  —  the  only  piece  of  colour  in  a  London 
autumn.  Come  early,  while  the  light  is  good. 
"  Yours  sincerely, 

"  RUPERT  SAVAGE. 

"  P.  S.  If  your  friend  Mrs.  Graeme  is  back  from 
her  wanderings,  and  remembers  who  I  am,  do  bring 
her  with  you  —  I  know  she  would  like  the  Diaz." 

Celia  Graeme  handed  the  note  back  to  Lady 
Waynefleete.  "  I  should  love  to  go.  What  non- 
sense he  writes  about  my  l  remembering '  him  — 
and  we  made  such  friends  at  Gwithians !  " 

"  He  thinks  you  have  been  neglecting  him,  dear, 
evidently.  He  is  rather  an  exigent  friend." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  spoil  him." 

"  ISTo ;  he  can't  be  spoiled  —  one  reason  why  I 
like  him.  .  .  .  Did  he  never  call  ?  " 

231 


232  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

"  I  found  his  cards  when  we  came  back  from 
Norway,  and  I  was  going  to  ask  him  to  dine  next 
week." 

"  Oh  —  then  you  didn't  give  him  any  sittings  ?  " 

"  Sittings  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  I  haven't  seen 
him." 

"  Then  you  haven't  seen  this.  Be  prepared  for 
a  surprise,  my  dear ;  come  and  look." 

Lady  Waynefleete  took  her  into  a  small  boudoir, 
the  end  wall  of  which  contained  only  one  picture 
—  Rupert's  "  A-minor." 

"  But  —  how  perfectly  beautiful !  "  said  Celia 
slowly,  her  eyes  resting  delightedly  on  the  pure, 
melancholy  lines  of  the  drawing.  Then  she  glanced 
at  Lady  Waynefleete,  and  something  in  her  expres- 
sion made  her  look  back  to  the  picture  quickly. 

"  Don't  you  recognize  yourself  ? "  asked  Lady 
Waynefleete. 

"  Me  ?  "  she  looked  again  at  the  veiled  face  in  the 
drawing.  "  I  only  wish  I  looked  like  that." 

"  My  dear,  it  is  the  image  of  you.  How  other 
people  didn't  notice  it,  I  can't  think.  It  was  indis- 
creet of  him,  but  I  didn't  tell  him  so." 

"  But  I  don't  understand.  What  have  I  got  to 
do  with  '  A-minor  ? '  " 

"  Goodness  knows  —  it  is  some  association  in  his 
mind.  Do  you  remember  the  first  day  you  met  him 
here?  Well,  he  had  just  come  from  hearing  Pach- 
mann  playing  Schumann's  concerto,  and  he  was  full 
of  it.  I  remember  he  said  something  about  Pach- 
mann  being  an  angel's  soul  in  the  body  of  a  devil, 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  233 

or  some  fantasy  of  that  sort.  And  then  you  came 
in  —  and  there  you  are,  you  see !  " 

"  I  don't  quite  see  —  one  is  no  judga  of  one's  own 
likeness,  but  perhaps  you  are  right  —  a  memory  of 
a  face  that  was  new  to  him  while  he  had  the  im- 
pression of  the  music  fresh  in  his  mind  ?  Yes !  I 
think  I  am  rather  pleased,  if  it  really  is  me.  Though 
I  wonder  why  I  am  like  A-minor  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  have  come  off  better  than  poor  Pach- 
mann.  All  that  about  Angel  and  Devil  isn't  Pach- 
mann  at  all  —  it  is  Kupert  Savage.  Pachmann, 
apart  from  his  inspiration,  is  just  a  jolly  little  man 
—  that  is  all ;  just  a  jolly  little  man  who  likes  play- 
ing and  making  faces !  So  I  suppose  he  has  invested 
you  with  the  A-minor  qualities,  whatever  they  may 
be.  Come,  there  is  the  carriage." 


Rupert  looked  round  his  long,  grey  room,  fra- 
grant with  bunches  of  dark  crimson  carnations,  and 
saw  that  the  tea-table  was  complete  and  that  the 
light  was  evenly  diffused,  so  that  the  raying  colour 
of  the  Diaz,  alone  on  the  end  wall,  could  make  its 
full  appeal. 

He  was  glad  to  be  back  here,  in  what  had  become 
his  own  element.  The  yachting  trip  had  not  been 
a  great  success,  except  that  it  had  provided  rest  and 
fresh  air  for  a  number  of  people  who  needed  them 
rather  badly.  Freddy  Steinman  had  been  there; 
and  whatever  might  be  said  for  him  when  those 
beady  eyes  of  his  were  bulging  with  artistic  enthu- 


234  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

siasm,  Freddy  in  the  role  of  an  English  gentleman 
was  more  than  impossible.  The  other  guests  had 
not  been  amusing;  they  had  talked  politics  and 
finance,  or  that  combination  of  the  two  with  which 
the  Union  Jack  is  now  associated,  and  Rupert  had 
been,  rather  thankfully,  out  of  it.  The  Graemes  had 
not  been  encountered  in  Norway,  although  Rupert 
had  seen  their  names,  written  the  week  before,  in 
the  hotel  book  at  Molde,  and  had  felt  lonelier  than 
ever.  He  had  been  heartily  glad  when  the  Bonita 
had  turned  her  white  stem  homewards  across  the 
North  Sea.  He  had  made  a  sudden  excuse  when 
they  put  in  to  Aberdeen  to  coal,  had  taken  the  eve- 
ning mail  and  arrived  in  London  the  next  morning. 
Thence  he  had  gone  to  Paris,  and  enjoyed  himself 
in  the  world  of  studios  and  galleries  until  the  cra- 
ving for  work  summoned  him  home  again.  And 
now  he  was  waiting,  with  an  unaccountable  excite- 
ment in  his  heart. 

He  heard  the  carriage  drawing  up  in  the  street 
below,  and  the  sound  of  the  knocker  on  the  door; 
he  heard  voices,  footsteps,  the  rustle  of  silk;  he 
saw  the  grave  countenance  of  Hicks  as  he  announced 
the  visitors;  and  then  the  massive,  dignified  figure 
of  Lady  Waynefleete  in  dark  grey,  and  the  tall, 
slender  presence  of  Celia  Graeme  in  vieux  rose,  sup- 
plying by  magic  coincidence  the  two  missing  tones, 
made  the  colour  scheme  of  his  room  complete.  He 
sighed  to  himself  as  he  smiled  and  shook  hands  — 
sighed  with  happiness.  He  had  everything  he 
wanted. 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  235 

"  You  are  Mr.  Rupert  Savage,  aren't  you  ? " 
asked  Celia ;  "  I  thought  I  remembered  you."  And 
the  smile  with  which  she  said  it,  half  amused,  half 
reproachful,  and  its  reflection  in  Rupert's  face, 
made  them  all  laugh. 

They  admired  the  Diaz  as  it  deserved  to  be  ad- 
mired. They  talked  about  it,  and  about  them- 
selves, and  about  Norway.  "  I  wish  we  had  come 
across  you  there,"  said  Celia.  "  Why  didn't  you 
find  us  out?  I  am  sure  we  should  have  been  much 
better  for  you  than  the  Steinmans."  And  Rupert 
felt  quite  unable  to  tell  her  how  much  he  agreed 
with  her,  and  how  much  the  fact  that  she  had  been 
in  Norway  had  influenced  his  own  fruitless  journey 
there.  He  was  rather  quiet,  and  let  Lady  Wayne- 
fleete,  who  had  often  been  to  his  studio,  show  Celia 
some  of  his  treasures  —  his  edition  of  the  "  Hyp- 
noteromachia,"  a  wonderful  Spanish  book  of  hours 
of  the  thirteenth  century,  a  hand-coloured  copy  — 
the  only  one  —  of  the  Spezzia  catalogue  of  cameos, 
and  a  few  other  things.  He  left  them  alone  to  look 
at  the  cameos,  so  that  his  presence  might  not  be  a 
possible  cause  of  embarrassment,  and  he  was  glad 
to  make  an  excuse  to  be  busy  with  some  portfolios 
behind  them,  so  that  he  might  enjoy  the  pleasure  of 
looking  at  Celia  and  listening  to  her  voice  unob- 
served. Her  charm,  her  beauty,  her  sadness  made 
a  new  appeal  to  him;  he  was  conscious  of  a  sense 
of  elation,  of  certainty  that  his  perception  of  it 
meant  the  beginning  of  a  new  joy  in  life,  just  as 
he  felt  when  he  saw  a  great  masterpiece  for  the  first 


236  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

time,  and  knew  that  knowledge  of  it,  study  of  it, 
meant  possession  of  it  for  his  own. 

And  then  Lady  Waynefleete  found  some  bound 
volumes  of  old  Salon  illustrated  catalogues,  and  sat 
down  to  search  for  something  she  wanted  to  iden- 
tify, and  Celia  went  over  to  the  other  end  of  the 
room  to  look  at  some  of  the  sketches  for  the  "  Syrian 
Songs."  She  was  used  to  people  being  charming  to 
her,  but  she  was  not  used  to  feeling  their  charm  so 
definitely  as  she  felt  Rupert's.  She  had  an  odd 
certainty  that  from  moment  to  moment  he  would  do 
and  say  the  thing  she  wanted  to  see  done,  or  to  hear 
said;  she  felt  the  strength  of  his  personality,  all 
the  more  commanding  because  it  was  an  unconscious 
strength,  arising  from  a  certain  serenity  of  soul  and 
mastery  of  circumstance.  She  was  aware  of  the 
unusual  gentleness  and  fineness  of  perception  that 
made  him  thoughtful  in  little  things;  she  was 
aware,  too,  as  women  are  very  quickly  aware,  of  his 
quite  blind,  instinctive  attraction  to  her,  and,  per- 
haps for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  felt  a  kind  of 
diffidence  as  to  whether  she  had  gifts  worthy  to 
bring  to  such  a  friendship.  She  saw  his  need  of 
her  —  or  of  some  one.  "  What  a  good  thing  I  am 
married !  "  was  one  of  her  early  thoughts ;  "  prob- 
ably if  I  wasn't  I  would  marry  him,  and  be  no  use 
to  him."  But  it  was  only  a  first  thought,  while  she 
could  still  see  both  herself  and  him  definitely  and 
clearly  apart  from  one  another.  She  did  not  think 
it  later. 

She  went  away  that  day  with  a  strange  fluttering 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  237 

of  wings  within  her,  and  with  an  outward  anima- 
tion that  was  rare  even  for  her.  Her  husband,  al- 
ways watchful,  attentive,  always  a  student  of  her, 
noticed  it;  they  had  dined  at  home  alone,  and 
talked  animatedly  all  the  evening  —  interesting  talk 
about  interesting  things  —  the  talk  of  friends  whose 
minds  make  a  harmony,  and  not  the  mere  unison  or 
echoing  octave  of  the  ordinary  married  duet. 

"  How  happy  I  am,  my  dearest,  when  I  have  you 
to  talk  to  like  this,"  said  the  big  man  rather  shyly 
as  she  got  up  to  go  to  bed ;  "  much  the  most  intel- 
ligent as  well  as  the  most  beautiful  companion  for 
me  in  the  world !  " 

"  Dear  Charles !  "  she  said,  looking  at  him  affec- 
tionately and  laying  her  hand  for  a  moment  on  his 
arm.  "  You  are  always  so  appreciative  —  besides, 
any  one  but  an  absolute  imbecile  would  feel  wise 
talking  to  you.  You  are  so  interested  in  what  one 
thinks,  about  anything  or  nothing.  .  .  .  Good-night, 
dear." 

She  turned  her  cheek,  and  he  kissed  it  lightly 
and  reverently,  holding  the  door  open  for  her  and 
watching  her  long,  slender  figure  fading  in  the  gloom 
of  the  staircase.  Then  he  sat  down  in  his  arm-chair, 
looking  for  a  long  time  at  the  fire  with  wide-open, 
clear  eyes  and  a  furrowed  brow.  He  had  taken  a 
cigar  from  the  box  beside  him,  but  had  not  lighted 
it;  suddenly  he  crushed  it  violently  in  his  hand, 
and  ground  his  teeth,  his  face  twisted  into  an  ex- 
pression of  helpless  pain.  It  was  a  paroxysm;  it 
passed,  and  left  him  grave  and  quiet  again,  and 


238  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

tired-looking.  He  mixed  a  whisky-and-soda,  took 
another  cigar  and  lighted  it,  picked  up  a  book  and 
sank  back  in  his  chair  with  a  sigh. 


Rupert  went  very  soon  to  call  on  her.  He  went 
late  one  afternoon  and  found  her  alone  in  a  white 
drawing-room  that,  for  all  the  civilization  expressed 
in  its  pictures  and  furniture,  seemed  to  hold  some- 
thing of  the  freshness  and  simplicity  of  a  country 
cottage.  At  first  the  room  might  have  contained 
nothing  but  flowers  and  her;  afterwards  the  other 
beautiful  things  in  it  seemed  to  steal  out  from  the 
walls  and  take  a  silent  part  in  the  harmony  between 
her  and  him.  They  talked  continuously  —  there 
were  no  silences  on  that  day  —  and  laughed  a  great 
deal;  the  humour  of  so  many  things  was  revealed 
to  them  both  as  though  for  the  first  time;  they 
felt  as  though  they  were  exploring  a  new  country 
together,  and  playing  a  game  of  rivalry  as  to  which 
of  them  should  announce  the  most  interesting  dis- 
coveries. Always  they  were  on  the  edge  of  quiet 
laughter;  it  was  a  gay,  happy  hour.  Afterwards 
Graeme  came  in,  and  was  drawn  into  the  pleasant 
concord  of  their  mood ;  sometimes  joining  in  it  him- 
self, but  more  often  listening  to  them  as  one  listens 
to  two  high-spirited  children,  who  infect  one  with 
the  extravagance  of  their  mood. 

"  A  very  attractive,  charming  fellow,"  said 
Graeme,  when  Rupert  had  gone ;  "  we  must  see 
more  of  him ;  "  and  Rupert  accordingly  dined  in 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  239 

Curzon  Street  the  following  week,  and  called  a  few 
days  after,  and  had  Charles  Graeme  to  lunch  with 
him  to  see  the  Diaz,  and  took  Mrs.  Graeme  to  see 
Sibley's  pictures  and  to  hear  Siloti  play,  and  became 
an  intimate  of  the  house.  There  was  nothing  re- 
markable in  his  devotion  to  Mrs.  Graeme,  for  her 
friends  were  nearly  all  her  courtiers:  it  was  im- 
possible to  know  her  and  not  to  render  her  a  hom- 
age which,  although  she  never  received  it  as  a  matter 
of  course,  she  somehow  turned  to  the  credit  and 
improvement  of  those  who  paid  it.  Women  who 
were  jealous  of  her  —  and  of  course  there  were  a 
few  —  said  she  flirted  with  every  one  who  admired 
her;  but  on  the  other  hand,  the  Pagans  and  devo- 
tees of  the  Greek  view  of  life,  who  tried  to  annex 
her  because  of  her  beauty  and  her  proficiency  in 
intellectual  swordsmanship,  complained  that  she  was 
cold,  and  had  the  soul  of  a  Puritan  in  the  body  of 
a  Bacchante  —  showing  themselves,  as  usual,  a  little 
weak  in  their  history  and  mythology.  Edmund 
Heath,  who  viewed  women  from  only  one  standpoint 
—  and  it  was  not  exactly  Grecian  —  met  her  among 
the  crowd  one  day  at  Bowen's  studio,  and  talked  to 
her  all  the  time. 

"  But  why  was  I  never  told  about  her  ? "  he  said 
to  Rupert  when  she  had  gone ;  "  she  is  wonderful, 
she  is  delicious;  one  could  have  a  great  passion  for 
her!  Now,  you  are  a  young  man,  with  great  ad- 
vantages. I  should  think  you  could  have  a  delight- 
ful intrigue  with  that  lady  —  it  is  quite  obvious 
that  her  husband  bores  her  to  death." 


240  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

Rupert  smiled  unwillingly.     "  For  any  one  who 
has  studied  women  as  you  have,  Heath,  you  some- 
times make  a  bad  break.     You're  quite  out  of  it  — 
away  out  —  in  this  case." 

"  Oh,  then  you  know ;  you  have  tried  ?  My  dear 
boy,  why  look  offended  ?  After  all,  you  know,  there 
is  only  one  supreme  tribute  that  one  can  pay  to  any 
one  as  delightful  as  that.  Really,"  he  added,  smi- 
ling plaintively,  "  I  don't  want  to  offend  you,  but 
I  think  that  some  of  you  might  make  love  to  the 
poor  lady.  I  must  go  and  see  her." 

And  he  solemnly  walked  off  to  Curzon  Street  the 
next  day,  with  the  eternal  spark  of  hope  in  his  lib- 
ertine old  heart  that  the  apples  from  heaven  might 
by  some  wonderful  miracle  fall  straight  into  his  lap. 
There  was  always  a  chance!  and  he  never  left  it 
untried.  What  took  place  at  the  interview  did  not 
transpire ;  but  Heath  was  during  that  evening  with 
Sibley  and  Rupert,  and  spoke  despondently  about 
the  women  of  England. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said  in  his  resonant  voice, 
grave  and  melodious  as  a  Stradivarius  tenor ;  "  I 
suppose  as  one  grows  older  one  gets  more  exacting; 
but  the  preliminaries  of  love  become  more  and  more 
tedious  to  me.  The  caprice  —  the  eternal,  delicious 
caprice  —  that  is  what  is  beautiful  —  when  a  woman 
to  whom  you  have  just  been  presented  turns  to  you 
and  says,  '  Take  me  in  your  arms ! ' 

"  Caprice  of  the  farm-yard,"  muttered  Rupert. 

"  Beautiful  even  in  the  farm-yard,"  sighed  Heath, 
almost  making  it  appear  so  by  the  plangent  tones 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  241 

of  his  voice.  "  Even  there,"  he  continued,  making 
circles  with  his  slender  hand  in  the  air,  "  amid  the 
fluttering  straw,  by  the  green  shores  of  the  duck- 
pond,  in  the  fragrant  darkness  of  the  barn,  in  the 
gross  ecstasy  of  the  pigstye,  this  divine  drama  of 
love  is  taking  place.  It  is  a  beautiful  theme,  the 
love  of  the  farm-yard.  The  hot,  silent  noonday, 
the  —  " 

"  Oh,  give  it  a  rest,"  said  Rupert,  joining  in 
Sibley's  laughter  at  Heath.  "  You  can  dig  poetry 
out  of  anything  with  that  voice.  ISTow  don't  go  and 
write  a  poem  called  '  The  Eternal  Caprice,'  full 
of  lines  that  make  one  hold  one's  breath,  and  a  sen- 
timent that  makes  one  hold  one's  nose." 

"  You  talk  strange  nonsense  for  an  artist,"  said 
Heath :  "  I  am  not  sure  that  I  am  pleased  with 
you.  It  is  your  sentiment  that  I  find  revolting  — 
the  slow,  timid  sensuality  of  courtship,  the  long 
approach,  the  books,  the  flowers,  the  little  notes  — 
all  directed  to  one  very  simple  end,  which  might  be 
achieved  with  a  little  honesty  in  a  few  minutes." 

"  The  end  is  nothing,"  said  Sibley ;  "  it  is  the 
approach  that  is  everything." 

"  Give  me  both,"  said  Rupert,  laughing,  and  pre- 
paring to  leave  the  table.  "  ]STo,  don't  get  up, 
Sibley;  continue  your  academic  discussion.  I'm 
sleepy." 

One  day,  when  Rupert  had  taken  his  sketch-book 
to  show  Celia  the  brief  descriptions  or  summaries 
of  the  poems  with  which  Midwood  had  furnished 


242  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

him,  he  had  said,  laughing,  "  Let  us  walk  a  little 
on  the  Road  to  Damascus ;  "  and  they  had  come, 
half  playfully,  half  wistfully,  to  call  the  double 
progress  of  his  work  and  of  their  friendship  by  that 
name.  The  intimacies  that  grew  up  between  them 
were  always  veiled  in  gay  and  happy  metaphors; 
and  if  in  the  shining  of  his  eyes  or  the  tones  of  her 
voice  something  from  the  deep  threatened  to  speak, 
the  breeze  of  intellect  always  blew  on  the  surface, 
and  kept  it  glancing  and  dancing  in  a  pretty  trouble 
that  hid  the  set  of  the  current  beneath.  They  were 
both  guarded  and  confident  at  once,  happy  and 
afraid.  At  first  it  was  knowledge  of  themselves  that 
made  them  happy,  and  knowledge  of  the  world  that 
warned  them  to  be  afraid;  afterwards  it  was  self- 
knowledge  that  flew  the  danger-signal,  while  the 
world  lulled  and  reassured  them.  But  as  Rupert 
advanced  step  by  step  in  this  loving,  elaborate  study 
of  his  friend,  he  found  her  always  wiser,  always  bet- 
ter, always  deeper  and  truer  to  herself;  he  encour- 
aged himself  to  love  her,  and  to  read  more  deeply 
in  the  fair  page  of  her  character  and  personality. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  awe  in  his  affection  for 
her ;  she  was  in  many  ways  mysterious  to  him ;  her 
strength  was  a  mystery,  and  the  source  of  it,  for 
she  was  neither  religious  nor  philosophical ;  and  the 
sadness  that  often  spoke  so  eloquently  through  her 
vivacity  and  gaiety  puzzled  and  baffled  him;  he 
did  not  see  why  any  one  who  was  so  sure  of  herself 
and  of  the  world  should  have  that  strain  of  melan- 
choly in  her  nature.  Sometimes  he  thought  she  was 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  243 

not  happy  with  her  husband,  but  there  seemed  to 
be  so  much  understanding  between  them,  so  much 
sympathy  and  deep  affection,  that  he  never  enter- 
tained the  thought  for  very  long  at  a  time. 

Instinctively,  perhaps,  he  avoided  looking  too 
closely;  for  very  early  in  their  friendship  he  be- 
came impatient  of  the  thought  that  she  existed  seri- 
ously in  any  relationship  except  the  one  of  friend- 
ship with  him.  It  was  not  that  he  thought  of  being 
jealous  of  Graeme,  or  any  one  else;  the  world  in 
which  he  and  she  lived  was  so  real  and  so  much 
richer  and  fuller  than  any  he  had  inhabited  before 
that  it  was  for  the  time  enough  for  him.  Things 
were  as  they  were.  He  knew  her  to  be  a  woman 
incapable  of  any  ordinary  intrigue,  and  he  had  no 
love  for  intrigue  himself.  Sometimes  the  thought 
that  she  was  married,  that  love  for  her  had  played 
its  symphony  and  come  to  a  full  close,  came  upon 
him  suddenly,  and  for  a  moment  darkened  life,  like 
a  cloud  passing  over  the  sun;  but  it  was  only  for 
a  moment.  The  thought  was  more  surprising  than 
painful  —  it  was  so  oddly  at  variance  with  his  abi- 
ding sense  of  some  to-morrow  which  was  to  be  the 
really  important  day  in  their  friendship,  and  for 
which  the  crowded,  happy  hours  of  the  present 
seemed  no  more  than  a  preparation. 

"  I  sometimes  wonder,"  he  said  to  her  one  day, 
"  if  you  hadn't  some  Spanish  ancestor  concealed  in 
your  family  tree."  They  were  sitting  in  the  Curzon 
Street  drawing-room  one  Sunday  after  being  to- 
gether at  a  concert.  They  had  not  been  speaking 


244  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

much,  and  Rupert  had  been  looking  at  her  as  she  sat 
idly  playing  with  a  paper-knife. 

She  shook  her  head.  "  He  is  successfully  hidden 
if  he  is  there.  I  am  afraid  there  is  nothing  more 
romantic  than  English  and  Scottish  —  and  French, 
a  long  way  back.  But  why  Spanish  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  —  some  southern  race,  at  any  rate. 
There  is  a  kind  of  bright  melancholy  in  you  —  or 
melancholy  brightness  —  I  don't  know  which,  that 
reminds  me  of  Spain." 

"  Bright  melancholy  is  much  nicer.  But  how  ?  " 
"  You  see  it  in  Velasquez,  and  more  especially 
in  Goya  and  the  landscape  painters.  Tt  is  a  quality 
that  I  can  only  describe  in  those  words  — (  bright 
melancholy ' ;  it  belongs  to  southern  countries,  and 
hot,  wide  landscapes  lying  silent  in  the  sunshine. 
The  melancholy  of  a  northern  country  is  never 
bright.  It  is  sombre  —  a  melancholy  of  winds  and 
waves  and  storms.  It  is  sad  here  when  it  is  dark; 
but  in  the  south  darkness  is  gay,  and  only  the  bright 
hours  are  sad.  Think  of  those  rolling  landscapes 
of  Zuloaga,  with  all  the  colour  living  vividly  in  the 
sun  —  and  yet  how  melancholy  they  are !  " 

"  You  were  growing  up  when  you  were  in  Spain, 
and  that  is  always  a  sad  thing  in  retrospect  —  that 
is  why  you  associate  Spain  with  melancholy  —  and 
me." 

"  Am  I  still  growing  up,  then  ?  " 
"  Surely  you  are.    Why,  aren't  you  glad  ?  " 
"  I  want  to  be  at  Damascus,"  said  Rupert,  looking 
at  her  steadily,  "  and  it  seems  a  very  long  road." 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  245 

"  Don't  be  impatient  of  the  road,  my  friend.  To 
travel  is  better  than  to  arrive,  you  know,"  said  Celia ; 
but  he  only  answered,  "  It  depends,"  and  their  talk 
turned  away  from  personal  things. 

For  them  both  the  hours  they  spent  thus  came 
to  stand  out  like  clear  crystal  amid  the  colour  of 
their  lives.  In  that  winter  of  work  and  friendship 
Rupert  came  to  the  fullest  consciousness  of  himself 
and  his  powers;  and  her  clarifying  influence  gave 
him  a  serenity  of  mind  that  had  not  always  been 
his,  but  which  steadied  and  deepened  everything  that 
he  was  and  did.  She  saw  the  strength  growing  and 
unfolding  in  him,  and  was  gladdened  in  her  soul; 
qualities  that  she  had  divined  in  him,  but  which 
had  been  hidden  beneath  the  fabric  that  fame  had 
built  up  so  rapidly,  she  now  saw  emerging  into  the 
light ;  it  was  as  though  another  and  more  solid  build- 
ing was  rising  behind  the  handsome  temporary  front- 
age of  success.  She  did  not  ask  any  questions  of 
her  heart;  but  she  felt  that  he  and  she  were  draw- 
ing near  to  the  gates  of  that  city  which  they  had 
so  often  pictured  in  various  similes  and  ideas. 

At  first  the  Road  to  Damascus  was  identified  with 
Rupert's  drawings  and  designs  for  the  "  Syrian 
Songs  " ;  but  gradually  it  became  less  directly  asso- 
ciated with  his  work,  and  more  with  their  talk,  their 
friendship,  themselves.  It  had  been  her  invention, 
but  they  had  elaborated  it  together,  until  the  road 
became  the  road  of  their  love,  and  the  city,  the  city 
of  their  dreams.  At  first  it  had  been  the  city  of 


246  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

men's  purpose  and  achievement;  it  was  Celia  who 
said  that  it  must  be  different,  and  that  the  golden 
domes  and  minarets  and  crescents  floating  in  the 
haze  of  desert  sunshine  could  have  nothing  to  do 
with  achievement,  but  stood  for  the  traveller's 
dreams  of  happiness. 

"  I  see  it  all  so  clearly,"  she  said  one  day  when 
they  had  been  having  one  of  their  half  grave,  half 
make-believe  arguments ;  "  you  must  let  me  have 
my  way.  I  have  only  to  shut  my  eyes,  and  I  see 
them  all  —  each  one  travelling  in  company,  and  yet 
moved  by  an  inner  inspiration.  They  are  all  holy 
and  blithe  and  beautiful,  and  —  " 
"  Not  holy ;  they  must  not  be  holy !  " 
"  Oh  yes ;  because  it  is  only  in  the  best  hours, 
the  hours  of  exaltation,  that  the  road  can  be  trodden 
by  mortal  feet.  It  is  a  wonderful  road!  bordered 
by  laurel  and  bay  and  myrtle  and  cypress  and  oak 

—  all  the  trees  that  poets  have  ever  named  —  and  it 
is  under  the  trees  that  the  humbler  travellers  move 

—  not  quite  so  rich  and  secure  as  the  stately  pro- 
cession  in  the   middle,   but  moving  on  under   the 
compelling  mastery  of  love.     Each   one  holds  his 
companion's    hand,    and    they    speak    seldom    and 
softly." 

"  And  do  they  all  arrive  ?  "  asked  Rupert,  look- 
ing at  the  wedding-ring  on  the  long  slender  hand 
that  lay  on  the  polished  arm  of  the  chair. 

She  paused  a  moment  before  answering,  still  in 
the  same  dreamy  voice,  still  with  the  same  veiled 
eyes. 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  247 

"Yes  —  I  think  —  they  all  arrive.  They  arrive 
at  nightfall,  for  the  progress  of  the  hours  is  reckoned 
for  each  one  according  to  the  measure  of  his  step. 
Some  linger  by  the  way  —  " 

"  Some  linger  by  the  way  ?  "  he  echoed  in  a  low 
voice,  still  looking  at  her  hand. 

"  Linger,  and  lose  count  of  the  time ;  and  their 
day  from  noon  to  night  drags  slowly.  But  oth- 
ers—" 

"  What  of  the  others  ? "  He  looked  up  at  her 
eyes,  compelling  the  dropped  lids  to  lift  and  reveal 
the  sheen  of  dark  violet  beneath  them.  She  did  not 
drop  them  again,  but  there  was  no  answering  smile 
in  them. 

"  Others  are  less  fortunate,  for  they  make  too 
much  haste,  and  arrive  —  alone." 

"  There  are  others  still."  Rupert  spoke  in  the 
same  quiet  tone,  looking  earnestly  into  her  eyes. 
"  Oh,  there  are  others  who  are  happier  and  braver ! 
They  go  on  —  they  go  on,  not  in  tears  and  with 
timid  steps,  but  joyfully,  and  they  conquer  time 
and  their  hour  of  glory  in  one  flight  —  Celia  !  " 

She  looked  up  at  him  swiftly,  one  questioning 
wonder  in  her  eyes.  He  laid  his  hand  over  hers. 
"  Shall  I,  shall  we,  ever  —  be  there  ?  "  His  voice 
shook  a  little,  while  he  waited  in  the  silence  that 
seemed  to  last  for  an  age.  She  did  not  move  or 
speak,  and  at  last  he  looked  up  into  her  face. 

She  was  looking  at  him,  and  her  eyes  were  violet 
lakes  of  tears,  and  yet  she  was  smiling  too.  "  Fool- 
ish, foolish  one,  don't  you  see  ? "  she  asked  him 


248  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

softly.     "Don't  you  recognize  the  city   after 
Rupert  —  it  is  nightfall  for  us !  " 

A  wave  of  wonder,  of  realization,  of  passionate 
joy  swept  over  him  and  stopped  the  beating  of  his 
heart  for  a  moment.  He  leaned  swiftly  towards 
her,  gathered  her  two  hands  in  his,  and  pressed  them 
to  his  heart,  and  laid  his  cheek  beside  hers.  All  the 
tides  of  the  world  seemed  to  rush  into  his  brain,  but 
he  only  whispered,  "  Thank  God,  thank  God !  "  He 
never  kissed  her,  or  took  her  in  his  arms,  nor  sought 
any  of  the  gestures  of  love;  they  lived  this  moment 
far  from  their  bodies,  in  the  magic  world  of  the 
soul.  The  beating  of  their  hearts  in  unison  was  the 
only  voice  to  which  they  listened;  it  marked  for 
them  those  lightning  moments  of  love  that  all  our 
will,  all  our  prayers,  cannot  avail  to  turn  or  stop. 

At  last  she  whispered :  "  Let  us  keep  this  a  little 
longer  —  let  it  last  us  for  one  day !  " 

And  he  answered,  whispering  too,  eagerly :  "  Yes 
— •  not  another  word  or  look  —  only  this  —  for  to- 
day!" 

And  with  a  heart  in  which  the  great  drums  of 
joy  were  beating,  he  got  up  and  looked  with  radiant 
eyes  for  one  long  minute  into  hers,  still  wet  with 
their  happy  tears.  He  went  softly  to  the  door,  and 
turned  to  look  at  her  again;  she  was  smiling  now 
—  the  new  smile  of  love  that  only  the  lover  sees. 
He  answered  her  with  a  radiant  regard  of  exulting 
triumph  and  gratitude,  and  was  gone. 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  249 

The  barrier  between  them  was  down,  but  they  did 
not  cross  it.  The  mere  knowledge  that  they  were 
all  in  all  to  one  another  was  so  illuminating,  so  sat- 
isfying, that  for  the  time  it  was  enough,  and  they 
were  both  far  too  jealous  of  their  joy,  too  exalted 
with  the  spiritual  essence  of  their  love,  to  let  it  be 
shadowed  by  the  fears  and  miseries  that  would  other- 
wise have  haunted  their  new-found  happiness.  That 
which  brought  the  lover  such  pure  joy  could  not  be 
allowed  to  bring  any  trouble  or  difficulty  to  the  be- 
loved —  that  was  the  unspoken  thought  of  both  of 
them. 

They  were  like  fellow  craftsmen  who  had  toiled 
together  on  an  elaborate  jewel  of  gold,  and  had 
awakened  one  morning  to  find  it  set  with  a  crimson 
glowing  ruby.  Their  love  was  a  gift  from  heaven; 
but  the  setting  of  it,  their  friendship,  had  been  of 
their  own  making;  they  had  wrought  it  and  shaped 
it,  twisted  and  locked  it  together,  and  decorated  it 
with  such  loving  elaboration  that  it  too  was  precious 
to  them;  their  lives  had  grown  into  it.  They  knew 
every  line  and  pattern  on  it,  every  stroke  of  the 
hammer  was  remembered,  and  every  mark  of  the 
graving  tool ;  it  was  dear  and  familiar  to  them, 
and  beautiful  beyond  words ;  it  was  their  very  own. 
But  the  fire  that  lurked  in  the  gem  was  strange  and 
mysterious;  it  was  elemental,  it  might  be  terrible; 
they  would  let  it  slumber  there  for  a  time  until  they 
had  read  its  fiery  riddle,  and  meanwhile,  with  hands 
that  sometimes  trembled  a  little,  with  hearts  a  little 


250  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

awed,  continue  their  labour  on  the  kindly  gold  of 
friendship,  while  the  pattern  they  traced  drew 
slowly  nearer  to  the  centre  of  fire. 

They  agreed  upon  this  without  a  word  of  it  being 
ever  spoken ;  it  was  all  in  the  first  encounter  of  their 
eyes  when  they  met  after  the  great  day  of  revelation, 
when  Rupert,  going  forward  to  take  Celia  in  his 
arms,  realized  that  there  was  an  even  sweeter,  more 
intimate  greeting  than  that  —  namely,  his  old  one 
of  sitting  down  beside  her  and  kissing  the  tips  of 
her  fingers  once.  He  began  to  speak.  "  Everything 
is  changed  —  " 

"  But  we  shall  change  nothing,"  she  answered ; 
and  he  understood  and  was  silent.  The  whole  of 
life  was  a  promise  to  him  in  those  hours;  promise 
of  what,  of  when,  of  how,  he  did  not  know  nor  ask, 
feeling  simply  that  he  could  trust  the  beneficent 
force  that  had  brought  him  thus  far,  and  await  its 
time  and  place.  Only  once,  and  on  her  account,  he 
hinted  at  some  difficulty,  some  trial  of  the  future. 

"  Hush !  "  she  said  softly.  "  It  is  not  to  things 
like  that  that  the  Road  to  Damascus  leads.  There 
must  be  no  shadows  and  fears  on  our  path.  I  don't 
want  to  foresee,  I  don't  want  to  think.  We  will  live 
like  this  —  from  day  to  day,  with  never  a  to-mor- 
row." And  he  answered  her  in  the  same  strain, 
uttering  things  equally  foolish  and  irresponsible  and 
perishable,  and  equally  stamped  with  truth. 

So  they  resumed  the  happy  companionship  on 
which  Love  had  silently  put  his  seal  —  a  companion- 
ship infinitely  fruitful  to  them,  as  for  all  men  and 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  251 

women  in  this  world  everything  actually  loved  and 
chosen  with  a  whole  heart  must  be.  Their  meetings 
were  full  of  vital  and  joyous  exchange  of  themselves, 
as  before;  and  though  there  were  emotional  depths 
beneath  them,  vast,  silent,  unplumbed,  the  surface 
was  bright  with  the  rhythm  and  music  of  comrade 
minds :  true  speech,  true  thought,  true  laughter,  like 
sunshine  on  the  deep  sea. 


VIII 

THEKE  was  no  outward  change  to  reveal  this  great 
hidden  event  in  their  lives.  Rupert  worked  a  little 
harder,  with  a  deeper  sense  of  the  meaning  of  his 
life  and  work.  His  drawings  in  The  Riddle,  which 
really  gave  that  periodical  its  tone  and  value,  were 
no  less  beautiful  and  delicate  in  their  detail  than 
before,  but  they  tended  towards  a  greater  breadth 
both  of  treatment  and  idea,  became  less  impish  and 
mocking,  and  more  humane;  they  were  more  on 
the  lines  of  the  now  famous  "  A-minor  "  than  of  his 
former  work.  He  even  did  a  series  of  similar  de- 
signs, suggested  to  him  by  music  that  stirred  him, 
and  some  of  them  were  very  striking;  notably  the 
design  for  Moskowski's  great  valse  in  G-minor  —  a 
swaying  group  of  tiny  naked  figures  with  fans  dan- 
cing on  the  sand  under  the  crumbling  arch  of  a  long 
wave  curving  to  break ;  and  for  a  saraband  of  Bach 
—  the  last  an  exquisite  piece  of  mannered  formality, 
full  of  dignity  and  grace,  which  went  straight  to  the 
heart  of  Paris  and  abides  there  to  this  day.  But 
neither  he  nor  his  friendliest  critics  were  quite  sat- 
isfied with  this  vein ;  it  represented  a  kind  of  tran- 
sition period;  but  transition  to  what,  no  one  could 
quite  see. 

262 


WHEN   THE  TIDE  TURNS  253 

Steinman,  who  really  spent  a  great  deal  of  money 
on  the  group  of  mannerists,  and  loved  their  work 
as  only  a  Jew  can  love  the  thing  of  which  he  sees 
both  the  beginning  and  the  end,  was  sometimes  in 
despair. 

"  I  don't  know  what  Savage  is  about,"  he  said  to 
Sibley  one  day,  with  his  hands  upraised.  Sibley 
and  Midwood  and  Heath  were  lunching  with  him 
at  his  club  on  the  day  after  the  publication  of  the 
January  Riddle,  which  contained,  among  other 
things,  a  diabolically  clever  and  rather  unpleasant 
poem  by  Midwood  called  "  Uriah  the  Hittite,"  the 
first  instalment  of  some  confessions  by  Heath,  called 
"  The  Loves  of  my  Childhood,"  and  Rupert  Savage's 
"  The  Priest's  Mother  "  —  leaning,  wind-blown  fig- 
ures on  a  high  sky-line,  with  a  few  dots  and  lines 
of  moving  water  in  the  foreground. 

"  What  is  it  all  about  ? "  said  Steinman. 
"  There's  nothing  in  it." 

"  Except  drawing,"  said  Sibley. 

"  But  it's  commonplace,"  said  little  Steinman,  his 
face  puckered.  "  We  can  get  that  kind  of  thing 
from  the  Slade  School  —  any  amount  of  it.  No  one 
can  keep  a  reputation  going  on  that.  Savage  seems 
to  forget  that  he  has  his  own  public  and  his  own 
market  —  they  want  to  be  startled  and  stirred." 

Midwood  laughed  softly.  "  It  is  so  good  for  them 
to  be  shocked.  But  I  think  you  do  our  friend  Ru- 
pert an  injustice;  to  me  there  is  something  quite 
appallingly  remote  and  veiled  in  that  drawing ;  only 
he  should  have  called  it  '  the  Priest's  Daughter. ' 


254  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

That  would  have  been  witty,  and  you  can  let  it 
mean  what  you  like." 

"  I  see  the  Critic  is  pretty  down  on  you  all  this 
morning,"  said  Sibley ;  "  they  talk  about  nothing 
but  decadence,  and  say  iMidwood's  poem  ought  to 
be  suppressed." 

"  JSTo,  really  ?  "  said  Midwood.  "  How  splen- 
did!" 

"  Yes,  but  we  mustn't  overdo  it,"  said  Steinman. 
"  And  you  won't  mind  my  saying,  Heath,  that  I 
hope  your  next  batch  will  be  a  bit  cooler.  I  like  it 
—  I  think  it  is  a  most  artistic  piece  of  work;  but 
even  our  public  has  its  line,  you  know.  There  were 
one  or  two  words  —  well,  that  bit  about  the  school 
children  —  it  isn't  English,  you  know  —  I  don't 
think  they'll  like  it" 

"Well,  after  all"  said  Heath  genially,  "why 
should  they  like  it?  They  are  not  meant  to  like  it. 
Really,  if  it  comes  to  doing  things  that  the  English 
like,  I  am  afraid  none  of  us  can  be  of  much  use." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Steinman.  "  We  are 
all  Englishmen  here  —  isn't  it  ?  "  he  added,  with  an 
appealing  glance  at  Sibley. 

"  I  don't  think  there's  much  merit  in  being  merely 
disliked,"  the  painter  said ;  "  they  hate  my  work, 
so  it  doesn't  matter ;  but  I  would  rather  they  didn't." 

"  My  dear  Steinman,"  said  Heath  more  seriously, 
"  you  are  doing  a  very  difficult  thing,  a  very  noble 
thing,  and  a  very  pleasant  thing,  in  trying  to  make 
the  English  like  good  work.  Anything  as  pleasant 
as  that  can't  be  easy.  It  is  easy  to  be  sad  and  gloomy 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  255 

and  foolish  and  vulgar  and  Philistine;  to  be  happy 
and  wise  is  the  most  painful  and  difficult  thing  in 
the  world.  It  may  be  necessary  to  hurt  them  in  do- 
ing it  —  and  that  is  why  I  propose  to  tell  them 
about  what  goes  on  in  the  minds  of  neglected  chil- 
dren; it  will  hurt  them,  but  it  will  be  good  for 
them." 

Steinman  nodded  a  little  doubtfully.  "  Not  too 
far,  you  know,  all  the  same." 

"  Too  far  ?  You  can't  go  too  far.  Realism  is  the 
only  morality  worth  the  name." 

"  Then,  for  any  sake,  my  dear  Heath,  let  us  be 
idealistic,"  said  Midwood,  tapping  a  cigarette 
against  his  rather  coarse  fingers.  "If  we  are  not 
immoral  we  are  nothing.  Realism  is  as  ugly  as  — 
as  virtue." 

"  Well,  but  to  get  to  business,"  said  Steinman, 
who  was  always  uncomfortable  during  these  airy 
discussions.  "  I  don't  want  unpleasantness  in  the 
papers  —  it  won't  do  any  good.  But  if  Savage 
doesn't  tune  up  again  to  the  old  key  —  well,  he's 
done  for,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Evidently  they  don't  notice  any  difference,"  said 
Midwood ;  "  they  bracket  us  all  together  —  that  is 
where  we  are  great.  If  Rupert  were  to  draw  a 
straight  line  on  a  piece  of  paper,  every  one  would 
talk  about  its  exquisite  morbidity.  Don't  worry, 
Steinman  —  we'll  see  you  through,  old  man.  Our 
backs  are  broad  enough  to  carry  you." 

Sibley  added,  as  he  rose  to  go,  "  I  certainly 
wouldn't  be  anxious  about  Rupert  Savage;  he's 


256  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

only  lashing  about  a  little,  looking  for  the  medium 
he  wants.  He'll  settle  down  and  make  another  for- 
tune for  you  yet." 


Midwood  sauntered  along  Piccadilly  and  down 
St.  James's  Street,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his 
back,  his  stick  trailing  behind  him,  his  head  hang- 
ing forward  from  stooping  shoulders,  and  his  long, 
sallow  face  turned  from  side  to  side  as  he  scrutinized 
those  who  passed  him  in  the  street.  Once  he  stopped 
and  watched  a  large  pool  of  melted  sleet  and  mud 
being  shovelled  into  a  cart;  the  mud-surface  was 
iridescent,  and  shone  in  the  faint  sunshine  with  hues 
of  opal;  he  smiled  with  pleasure  at  the  rare  glit- 
tering colour  that  floated  on  the  lake  of  quaking 
mire. 

If  he  had  looked  behind  him  he  would  have  no- 
ticed that  a  plainly-dressed  person  in  a  pot  hat  and 
drab  raincoat,  who  had  been  walking  behind  him 
all  the  way  from  the  club,  stopped  also  and  looked  at 
his  own  reflection  in  the  blind  window  of  a  shop. 
When  Midwood  went  on  again,  humming  a  little 
tune,  the  plainly-dressed  person  went  on  too,  and 
when  Midwood  was  knocking  at  Rupert's  door,  this 
apparently  aimless  pedestrian  was  just  turning  the 
corner  from  St.  James's  Street.  He  seemed  to 
change  his  mind  when  the  door  closed  on  Midwood, 
and,  after  speaking  to  a  policeman  standing  at  the 
street  corner,  walked  briskly  off  in  the  direction  of 
Piccadilly  Circus,  where  he  went  up  to  another 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  257 

plainly-dressed  person  who  was  smoking  a  cigarette 
beside  the  fountain. 

"  Nothing  so  far,"  he  said,  accepting  a  cigarette 
from  the  loitering  person.  "  Got  up  at  twelve, 
lunched  at  the  Albany  Club  with  two  gents  —  name 
of  Steinman  and  Sibley;  left  there  3.45,  walked 
to  21-A  St.  James's  Place  —  name  of  Savage  —  Ru- 
pert Savage,  artist.  You'll  find  him  there  —  but 
it's  all  square  there.  This  is  a  mug's  game.  I'm 
off  to  get  my  tea.  Same  place  to-morrow  ?  Righto." 
And  the  first  plainly-dressed  person  jumped  on  an 
Elephant  'bus,  while  the  second  walked  briskly  down 
to  St.  James's  Place,  took  an  interest  in  Rupert's 
old  brass  door-knocker,  and  then  withdrew  to  the 
end  of  the  street,  where  he  contemplated  the  passing 
tide  of  traffic  with  the  eye  of  a  philosopher. 


Meanwhile  Midwood  and  Freddy  Steinman  were 
sitting  in  Rupert's  room  examining  such  of  the  draw- 
ings for  the  "  Syrian  Songs  "  as  were  finished.  The 
two  men,  each  in  his  own  way,  were  singularly  sen- 
sitive to  the  beauty  of  Rupert's  work;  Midwood's 
affectations  dropped  from  him  as  he  examined  one 
sheet  after  another,  and  the  whole  artist  in  him  rose 
in  homage  to  the  beauty  and  fertility  of  invention 
and  certainty  of  touch  that  gave  to  each  one  its  qual- 
ity of  perfection.  Steinman  was  delighted  too.  His 
little  soul  had  a  native  appreciation  of  what  was  beau- 
tiful in  art,  even  while  his  little  mind  was  busy  with 
figures  and  calculations,  and  rejoicing  itself  in  the 


258  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

certainty  of  financial  profit.  It  is  the  Jews  who 
really  inhabit  the  artist's  heaven  —  the  place  where 
the  finest  work  is  combined  with  the  richest  material 
rewards. 

"  Couldn't  be  better,  my  boy,"  said  Freddy ;  "  we 
are  in  for  a  safe  thing.  Hurry  up  and  finish,  and 
draw  your  money.  Four  hundred  copies  at  ten 
guineas  —  we  shall  sell  them  all,  and  you  will  have 
one  tousand  pound  each.  Eh  ?  " 

"  You  really  think  so  ?  "  said  Rupert.  "  I'm  de- 
lighted. But  what  is  best  is  that  you  are  pleased, 
Midwood.  Now,  wasn't  I  right  not  to  read  the 
poems?  I  couldn't  have  done  anything  so  near  to 
their  spirit  as  you  say  these  are  if  I  had.  Those 
outlines  you  gave  me  inspired  me,  but  the  poems 
themselves  would  have  made  me  despair.  If  you 
have  seen  a  thing  once  done  perfectly,  in  any  me- 
dium, you  can't  do  it  again  in  another." 

"  I  take  off  my  hat  to  you,  Rupert,"  said  Mid- 
wood  with  a  bow.  "  You  are  wonderfully  right. 
These  are  the  pictures  I  dreamed,  only  better.  They 
will  put  my  poems  into  the  shade;  won't  they, 
Freddy?" 

The  little  man  laughed  and  looked  shy.  "  Aren't 
they  shady  enough  already,  what?  No,  I  am  chaff- 
ing," he  added  quickly  to  Rupert,  seeing  his  puz- 
zled look.  "  The  poems  are  as  good  as  the  drawings 
—  I  can't  say  more." 

"  Do  you  want  a  drink,  Freddy  ? "  asked  Rupert. 
"  You  are  always  a  thirsty  little  devil." 

"  Thanks,  I  don't  mind.     Yes,  and  a  cigarette. 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  259 

And  that  Hops  on  a  chair  in  front  of  me  —  and  the 
magnifying-glass.  Gott !  I  wish  I  was  an  etcher !  " 

While  the  little  man  was  poring  over  the  etching, 
the  other  two  men  talked  on  by  the  fire  —  of  pic- 
tures, and  poems,  and  people,  and  the  universe  at 
large.  Midwood  was  at  his  best,  for  he  was  talking 
of  what  he  loved  and  understood,  and  Rupert  felt 
that  he  liked  him  better  than  usual.  There  was  less 
than  usual  of  that  faint,  unpleasant  mystery  that 
hung  about  him  like  an  odour,  and  that  Rupert 
found  so  repellant. 

They  talked  again  about  the  "  Syrian  Songs,"  and 
discussed  some  designs  which  Rupert  had  sketched 
for  the  white  vellum  cover.  Prom  that  they  went 
on  to  speak  of  the  publication  itself. 

"  Who  are  you  going  to  get  to  publish  it,  Freddy  ? 

—  or  are  you  going  to  put  your  own  name  on  it  ?  " 
asked  Rupert. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  about  that,"  said  Steinman, 
carefully  replacing  the  etching  on  an  easel  and  draw- 
ing his  chair  to  the  fire.  "  I  rather  wanted  to  know 
what  you  fellows  think  about  it.  You  see,  any  ordi- 
nary publisher  will  want  his  share  of  dhe  profits 

—  and  it  is  not  a  book  that  really  needs  publishing 
in  dhe  ordinary  way.     Only  some  one  has  to  appear 
as  publisher." 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  publish  it  yourself  ?  " 

Steinman  turned  in  his  chair  so  that  he  was  facing 

the  two  men.     "  ]STow  we  are  talking  business,  and 

you  must  listen  to  me.     I  don't  want  to  appear  in 

dhe  matter.     Why?     I  am  not  a  publisher  in  dhe 


260 

ordinary  sense  —  I  do  not  publish  books.  I  occa- 
sionally produce  a  plate,  or  a  reproduction,  and  I 
am  getting  up  dhe  value  of  my  name  and  reputation. 
If  I  publish  a  book,  all  my  colleagues,  who  are  my 
rivals,  will  say,  l  Ha !  Steinman  is  not  doing  well 
with  his  process ' ;  my  values  will  go  down.  And 
even  so,  my  name  —  will  it  add  glory  to  dhe  book  ?  " 

"  No,  I'm  damned  if  it  will,"  said  Midwood, 
laughing. 

"  In  other  circles,  yes ;  in  your  circle  —  London 
and  America  —  no.  They  do  not  know  me  —  yet," 
said  the  little  man. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  propose  ? "  asked  Rupert, 
who  did  not  feel  that  the  subject  was  so  important  as 
Steinman  made  it  out  to  be. 

"  I  propose  —  this,"  said  Freddy,  speaking  very 
precisely.  "  This  is  a  personal  work  —  it  is  going 
to  sell  on  two  names  —  Midwood,  and  Savage.  Why 
have  any  other  name  ?  Appear  as  your  own  pub- 
lishers; take  the  commercial  element  out  of  it  alto- 
gether, and  put  on  dhe  title-page,  '  London :  pub- 
lished by  Cyril  Midwood  and  Rupert  Savage.' ' 

"  Not  bad ;   what  do  you  think,  Rupert  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know ;  it  seems  all  right,"  said  Rupert. 
"You  aren't  trying  to  do  us  in  the  eye,  are  you, 
Freddy?  because  if  you  are,  you'll  get  your  head 
punched.  Besides,  I  don't  know  anything  about  pub- 
lishing a  book,  and  I  am  certain  Midwood  doesn't !  " 

Steinman  waved  his  arms  and  laughed.  "  Do  you 
in  dhe  eye  —  that's  a  good  one!  "No,  my  friend,  it 
would  be  too  easy.  But  to  talk  seriously  —  it  is  only 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  261 

a  formality.  Your  names  are  on  dhe  title-page  as 
publishers,  but  I  take  all  dhe  risk.  You  sign  an 
agreement  giving  me  dhe  right  to  risk  my  money  by 
publishing  four  hundred  copies,  I  pay  you  a  tousand 
pound  each  on  publication,  and  take  what  I  can  get, 
and  you  keep  dhe  copyright  of  dhe  poems.  Of  course 
dhe  drawings  are  never  to  be  reproduced,  or  we 
wouldn't  get  our  money.  Is  that  fair  ?  " 

"  It  seems  a  sporting  offer,"  said  Rupert.  "  What 
do  you  say,  Midwood?  So  long  as  we  don't  have 
any  bother,  and  he  does  all  the  work,  and  guarantees 
us  our  money  ?  " 

"  I  am  only  too  pleased  to  have  nothing  to  do  with 
tedious  details,"  said  Midwood  languidly.  "  If  my 
name  will  save  that,  you  can  print  it  all  over  the 
book,  Steinman." 

"  So,"  said  Freddy,  getting  up,  "  I  will  send  you 
dhe  papers  to  sign.  It  is  dhe  best  way;  but  it  is  a 
risk  for  me.  I  tell  you  I  wouldn't  take  it  for  any- 
one else !  " 

"  Get  out,  Freddy ;  you  mean  you  wouldn't  take 
it  if  you  didn't  see  your  money  safe.  Well,  we  are 
all  quite  satisfied,  and  we  needn't  bother  our  heads 
any  more  about  it.  ...  Must  you  go  ?  Good-bye. 
Your  tie  wants  straightening.  Where  do  you  get 
those  wonderful  ties  ?  And  why  do  you  have  card- 
board shoulders  in  your  coat?  You  are  a  weird 
creature,  Freddy ;  if  you  weren't  so  rich  you  would 
be  quite  intolerable."  And  Midwood  chaffed  the 
good-natured  little  man  out  of  the  room. 

"  Give  me  a  cigarette,  O  Rupert,"  he  said,  when 


262  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

Rupert  returned  from  seeing  Steinman  out ;  "  one 
of  those  drugged  with  pleasant  poison;  and  let  us 
be  silent  after  that  Hebrew  clatter;  let  us  conjure 
up  the  desert  sunshine,  and  the  tinkle  of  the  harness 
bells,  and  the  resurrection  of  the  soul,  and  the  life 
of  the  world  to  come."  And  the  poet  lay  back  in 
the  deep  chair,  and  watched  the  first  wreath  of  blue 
smoke  coiling  above  his  head. 


IX 

CHARLES  GRAEME  came  into  the  drawing-room 
where  his  wife  was  sitting  alone  at  tea. 

"  My  dear,  this  is  a  bore.  I  have  to  go  to  Liver- 
pool this  evening  about  that  amalgamation.  I 
thought  I  could  have  got  out  of  it,  but  they  have 
wired  for  me.  I  have  just  time  for  a  cup  of  tea. 
I  am  sorry  —  aren't  there  some  people  dining  ? " 

"  Only  Rupert  Savage  —  you  remember  ?  You 
asked  him  on  Sunday.  Shall  I  put  him  off  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not !  I  forgot.  Well,  that  is  all  the 
better.  He  will  be  company  for  you  —  and  he  cer- 
tainly won't  miss  me." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Charles  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  he  is  a  very  fortunate  man,  my  dear, 
and  that  he  has  the  perception  to  know  it."  He 
spoke  lightly,  with  a  smile  on  his  grave  face,  and 
picked  up  a  newspaper. 

Suddenly  Celia  looked  up  at  him  with  a  troubled 
questioning  expression  in  her  eyes. 

"  We  —  we  are  great  friends,  Charles."  She  did 
not  know  why  she  said  it;  her  heart  began  to  beat 
quickly ;  she  was  frightened ;  she  felt  as  if  the  con- 

263 


264  WHEN  THE  TIDE  TURNS 

trol  of  her  utterance  had  been  quietly  and  suddenly 
taken  away  from  her,  and  given  over  to  some  one 
else. 

"  Yes  ?  "  He  looked  up  from  the  paper,  and  then 
went  on  reading.  The  grave  smile  was  still  on  his 
face,  but  it  had  faded  out  of  his  eyes. 

"  Great  friends.  I  wish  you  knew  him  as  well 
as  I  do.  He  is  very  wonderful  —  more  wonderful 
than  his  work."  It  was  still  her  voice,  but  she 
seemed  to  herself  to  be  listening  to  the  words  rather 
than  speaking  them. 

He  answered  her  this  time  without  looking  up 
from  the  green-tinted  page. 

"  My  dear,  I  am  sure  he  is  all  you  say,  but  I  don't 
imagine  that  any  man  is  likely  to  know  him  so  well 
as  a  woman.  And  your  way  of  liking  people  is 
different  from  mine,  you  know." 

Celia  listened  anxiously  for  the  sound  of  her  own 
voice.  She  felt  that  it  was  on  the  point  of  uttering 
some  fatal,  final  thing  —  what  would  it  be?  Pres- 
ently the  words  came  —  from  a  very  long  way  off, 
it  seemed. 

"  That  was  what  I  meant.  I  —  I  love  Rupert 
Savage." 

As  she  heard  these  astounding  words  forming 
themselves  the  world  went  dark  to  her;  only  that 
fiery  sentence  seemed  to  blaze  in  a  black  sky  —  7 
love  Rupert  Savage.  She  turned  her  eyes  away  from 
Graeme  and  looked  at  the  still  hands  folded  in  her 
lap.  It  seemed  an  age  in  which  she  waited  for  his 
reply  —  an  age  in  which  the  whole  of  her  married 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  265 

life  acted  itself  again  on  the  stage  of  her  mem- 
ory. .  .  . 

There  was,  in  fact,  no  appreciable  pause  before 
Graeme  spoke.  She  heard  the  rustle  of  the  paper, 
and  then  —  was  her  sense  of  hearing  playing  her  a 
trick  ?  —  his  voice  answering  in  its  customary  calm 
tone. 

"  Well  —  so  long  as  you  don't  tell  him  so.  Dec- 
larations like  that  are  apt  to  be  misunderstood, 
especially  by  men  of  temperament  like  our  friend. 
May  I  have  some  more  tea  ?  " 

The  alien  spirit  of  confession  that  had  possessed 
her  and  used  her  voice  now  departed  from  her,  and 
left  her  in  sole  control.  She  saw  that  Graeme  had 
entirely  misunderstood  her,  and  taken  her  words 
as  a  purely  impersonal  expression  of  opinion.  She 
knew  that  he  believed  her  incapable  of  loving  any 
one,  since  she  did  not  love  him.  She  was  startled, 
puzzled.  The  impulse  of  literal  confession,  that  had 
come  from  she  knew  not  where,  had  made  her  utter 
to  her  husband  the  great  truth  of  her  life,  had  shot 
it  like  an  arrow  at  him;  and  Fate  had  stepped  in 
to  turn  the  arrow  aside.  What  did  it  mean  ?  Celia 
was  a  woman  accustomed  to  listen  to  the  inner  voices, 
to  look  and  wait  for  the  inward  light,  and  she  felt 
that  there  was  a  destiny  in  this  which  she  dare  not 
oppose.  .  .  . 

Her  voice  rippled  out  in  laughter  —  the  clear, 
true-ringing  laughter  that  even  the  sincerest  and 
most  candid  woman  can  summon  to  the  preservation 
of  her  dear  secret. 


266  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

"  I  think  Rupert  has  far  too  many  declarations 
of  affection  to  have  his  head  turned  by  mine.  He 
knows  that  I  am  not  even  original  enough  not  to 
be  devoted  to  him !  " 

Graeme  glanced  at  her  with  rather  a  weary  look 
in  his  eyes.  "  Dear  Celia,  may  I  beg  you  not  to 
say  things  like  that?  I  know  they  mean  nothing, 
but  they  don't  add  to  my  happiness.  Years  ago  we 
made  a  compact;  I  have  kept  my  side  of  it  as  well 
as  I  can;  I  have  tried  to  behave  as  though  I  didn't 
love  you.  Please  don't  make  it  difficult  for  me. 
We  have  plenty  of  common  ground,  I  know;  but 
I  don't  like  to  be  reminded  of  —  well,  of  the  terri- 
tory that  I  must  not  enter." 

"  I  am  sorry,  dear,  if  I  said  anything  to  hurt  you. 
Don't  let  us  be  sentimental,  though.  It  would  be 
a  most  unworthy  come-down  for  us  after  all  these 
years  of  friendly  understanding  of  facts.  Please, 
Charles,  don't  look  so  tragic,  and  stir  your  tea  so 
savagely,  or  I  shall  think  you  are  really  trying  to 
make  a  storm  in  your  tea-cup." 

He  relaxed  the  tense  expression  of  his  features 
and  laughed.  "  You  are  quite  right,  dear.  I  dare- 
say I  am  extremely  foolish.  Put  a  little  more  cream 
in,  please,  to  allay  the  raging  of  the  waves.  But 
as  you  are  having  a  Savage  to  dinner,  don't  let  him 
make  a  cannibal  feast  of  your  heart." 

It  was  her  turn  to  laugh,  and  the  talk  led  away 
from  the  storm-centre  and  was  maintained  in  a 
serene  atmosphere  until  it  was  time  for  him  to  go. 


WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS  267 

She  was  dressed  early,  and  went  about  the  house 
humming  a  little  song.  She  loved  her  house ;  it  was 
part  of  herself,  and  in  every  room  the  spirit  of  order 
and  beauty  was  supreme.  She  was  one  of  the 
women,  rare  in  our  time,  who  diffuse  their  person- 
ality far  out  into  the  world  about  them ;  her  clothes, 
her  rooms,  her  furniture,  her  books,  her  servants, 
her  friends  all  seemed  to  take  a  certain  quality  from 
the  influence  of  her  mind,  which,  like  the  quiet  rays 
of  candlelight,  showed  at  its  best  whatever  she  shone 
upon. 

She  felt  profoundly  happy  because  Eupert  was 
coming.  It  was  no  sense  of  a  guilty  joy  snatched 
from  unwilling  destiny  that  moved  her,  but  a  deep 
serene  gladness.  She  looked  round  the  room  that 
had  been  the  setting  of  so  much  of  their  friendship, 
and  into  which  so  much  of  her  life  had  grown ;  and 
quite  suddenly,  in  one  of  those  chills  of  the  imag- 
ination that  give  us  a  momentary  knowledge  of  the 
terrors  that  lurk  in  the  shadow  of  joy,  she  realized 
what  it  might  be  without  him.  The  tip  of  Death's 
icy  finger  touched  her  heart  for  a  second,  and  left 
it  beating  wildly  as  the  blood  flooded  back  to  it.  No, 
no,  no  —  they  could  not  lose  each  other  now! 

She  went  over  to  a  big  Venetian  mirror  and 
looked  at  the  image  of  herself  there.  She  tried  to 
pretend  that  she  was  Rupert,  and  to  look  at  the  re- 
flection with  his  eyes.  From  the  pearl  in  her  hair 
to  the  edge  of  the  train  of  grey  voile  was  one  long 
curving  line  such  as  he  loved;  how  glad  she  was 
that  she  was  so  slim  and  had  such  long  legs,  and 


268  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

such  a  girlish,  unopulent  body,  so  that  he  should 
find  delight  in  its  form  and  proportion!  What  a 
strange  thing  the  flesh  was,  and  how  deeply  she 
disliked  people  who  made  a  cult  of  it.  Her  body 
had  always  seemed  to  her  nothing  more  than  a  vis- 
ible adumbration  of  the  invisible,  intangible  soul; 
not  a  thing  belonging  to  her,  to  be  given  away,  or 
lent,  but  herself.  She  had  never  realized  that  until 
after  her  marriage,  when  her  soul  had  been  astray 
in  a  black  wilderness  on  which  she  never  looked 
back,  and  had  only  saved  itself,  against  all  her 
preconceived  and  inherited  ideas  of  woman's  duty, 
by  clinging  to  the  truth  that  it  and  the  body  were 
one,  and  were  mated  or  unmated  together.  Graeme, 
who  cherished  for  her  the  incomplete,  half-en- 
lightened feeling  of  the  unloved,  ungratified  lover, 
yielded  to  circumstance,  and  respected  what  he  took 
to  be  a  lack  in  her  nature;  she  was  always  half  in 
light  and  half  in  darkness  to  him,  and  while  he 
loved  and  admired,  he  never  understood  her.  .  .  . 
How  different  it  would  all  have  been  if  she  had  met 
Rupert  long  ago.  How  different  and,  as  she  began 
dimly  to  see,  how  much  more  just  some  of  her  views 
and  judgments  of  men  and  women  would  have  been, 
if  she  had  not  led  this  unreal  life.  When  she  had 
battled  it  out  for  herself  she  had  thought  she  knew 
everything.  Was  it  possible  that  she  knew  noth- 
ing? ... 

"Don't  move;    stay  exactly   as  you   are  for   a 
minute,  please."     It  was  Rupert,  who  had  come  in 


WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS  269 

quietly,  and  found  her  still  standing  in  a  reverie 
before  the  mirror.  She  turned  her  face  to  him, 
blushing  a  little  at  her  own  thoughts,  but  she  did 
as  he  asked.  He  went  up  to  the  mirror  and  kissed 
the  spot  where  her  mouth  was  reflected,  and  then 
turned  to  her  and  took  both  her  hands.  Almost  at 
once  she  told  him  about  her  husband's  sudden  de- 
parture, and  that  they  were  to  be  alone. 

"  Celia,  how  wonderful !  You  and  I,  quite  by 
ourselves  —  do  you  know  we've  never  had  dinner 
alone  together  in  our  lives  ? " 

"  Of  course,  I  know.  Rupert,  I  feel  about  ten 
years  old,  and  so  silly  and  happy."  And  she  seized 
both  his  hands  and  spun  him  round  in  a  quick  re- 
volving waltz,  her  grey  dress  sweeping  out  behind 
her  in  a  wide  fluttering  circle,  and  her  eyes  dan- 
cing with  a  childish,  mischievous  light.  He  caught 
the  inflection  of  her  gay  mood,  and  they  were  both 
standing,  flushed  and  laughing,  in  the  middle  of  the 
room  when  the  butler  came  to  announce  dinner. 

This  delightful  intimate  impression  was  height- 
ened rather  than  lessened  when  they  were  sitting 
together  at  the  small  round  table  in  the  dining-room, 
Celia's  well-trained  servants  moving  in  the  un- 
lighted  background.  The  fact  that  they  were  not 
alone  added  to  the  sense  of  a  happy  and  intimate 
secret  shared  between  them,  and  they  found  no  dif- 
ficulty in  keeping  up  a  flow  of  conversation  that  was 
no  less  real  and  sparkling  because  it  was  necessarily 
confined  to  impersonal  subjects.  But  whenever  Ru- 


270  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

pert  looked  up  and  saw  opposite  to  him  the  oval  of 
her  face  beneath  its  crown  of  dark  hair,  his  heart 
gave  a  little  jump  of  excited  happiness;  and  at  the 
sight  of  him  sitting  radiant  and  happy  before  her 
in  her  own  house,  at  her  own  table,  sharing  her  own 
life,  the  smile  in  her  eyes  shone  and  deepened  with 
the  sense  of  security  that  a  woman  feels  when  she 
sees  the  man  she  loves  surrounded  by  the  hundred 
expressions  of  herself  that  her  home  means.  And 
though  they  talked  of  commonplace  subjects  in 
their  own  uncommonplace  way,  there  were  little 
silent  flashes  and  messages  sent  across  the  table, 
smiles  at  the  end  of  a  sentence,  pauses  and  hesita- 
tions between  a  couple  of  chance  words,  little  ripples 
of  laughter  in  response  to  inaudible  speeches  and 
invisible  gestures  that  made  it  difficult  even  for 
first-footman  James,  the  sleek  and  observant,  to 
account  for  such  high  spirits  at  so  small  a  dinner- 
party. 

It  was  not  until  they  were  alone,  and  the  two 
little  cups  of  coffee  had  been  served  and  the  ciga- 
rettes lighted,  that  the  silence  fell  between  them 
and  the  smiles  faded.  An  unwonted  shyness  took 
possession  of  Celia,  an  intolerable  shyness;  she 
looked  at  her  plate,  and  watched  the  ash  whitening 
on  the  end  of  her  cigarette;  but  she  did  not  look 
at  Rupert.  He  was  looking  at  her,  however;  like 
one  who  is  conscious  of  the  absence  of  a  customary 
restraint,  he  allowed  his  eyes  to  rest  full  upon  her, 
and  to  receive  and  enjoy  that  subtle  and  wonderful 
emotion  that  is  stirred  by  the  sense  of  vision ;  there 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  271 

was  no  need  to  veil  his  eyes,  or  to  hide  that  tell-tale 
message  of  love,  nor,  for  once,  to  stifle  the  yearnings 
that  rose  in  his  hungry  soul. 

He  looked  at  her  leaning  on  the  table,  the  down- 
cast eyes  deepening  the  habitual  gravity  of  her  face ; 
and  from  the  beautiful  picture  his  eyes  wandered 
away  to  its  background  and  frame  —  the  charming 
room,  in  every  detail  of  which  was  expressed  the 
cultivated  love  of  simple  and  fine  things,  the  few 
good  pictures  on  the  walls,  the  spare  and  beautiful 
appointments  of  the  table.  .  .  .  His  imagination 
wandered  out  of  the  dining-room  into  the  silence  of 
the  empty  house  —  her  house,  intimate  and  familiar 
to  her,  but  a  land  untrodden  by  him ;  he  thought  of 
the  staircase  and  of  the  unknown  region  that  lay 
above  the  drawing-room  floor.  He  had  never  thought 
before  of  Celia's  house  as  existing  above  that  draw- 
ing-room floor,  the  life  of  which  he  shared;  sud- 
denly he  realized  that  it  contained  other  stories  and 
chambers,  as  her  life  itself  contained  regions  that 
lay  in  darkness  and  mystery  to  him. 

"  Celia,  I  cannot  bear  it.  This  is  not  happiness ; 
it  is  torture  —  it  is  hell !  " 

She  looked  up,  startled  at  the  hard  tone  in  his 
voice  and  the  bitter  expression  on  his  face,  and  then 
looked  down  again  at  her  plate. 

"  Tell  me  exactly  what  you  mean,  Rupert.  There 
must  be  no  hell  in  your  life  where  I  am." 

"  I  mean  just  that.     I  cannot  bear  it." 

"  Cannot  bear  sitting  alone  with  me  here  ?  " 

"  Not  in  another  man's  shoes." 


272  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

She  raised  her  hands  with  a  little  gesture,  half 
of  impatience,  half  of  despair.  "  How  can  you  say 
that  ? " 

"  Because  I  mean  it.  Because  to  be  sitting  with 
you  here  so  intimately  and  alone,  together  in  one 
house,  so  near  and  yet  so  far  away,  is  so  horribly 
like  the  real  thing,  that  it  is  unbearable  for  me  to 
remember  that  this  is  some  one  else's  chair,  this  is 
somje  one  else's  table,  this  is  some  one  else's  house, 
and  that  I  am  standing  in  some  one  else's  shoes." 

Even  amid  her  gravity  the  humorous  smile  played 
for  a  moment  round  the  curves  of  her  mouth. 
"  Why  worry  so  much  about  the  shoes  ?  Believe 
me,  no  one  wears  them  at  all.  They  were  tried 
and  they  did  not  fit.  They  seem  to  be  pinching 
even  you  a  little." 

"  Celia,  dear  love,  it  is  not  a  joking  matter." 

She  put  down  her  cigarette  and  looked  at  him 
across  the  table.  "  Kupert,  come  here.  .  .  .  No,  be 
quiet  —  stand  behind  my  chair,  put  your  hands  over 
my  shoulders  and  hold  my  hands  and  listen  —  once 
and  for  all.  Is  it  possible  that  you  do  not  know? 
Is  it  possible  that  you  have  known  me  so  long  and 
think  me  capable  of  living  one  of  those  dreadful 
mixed  lives  that  one  reads  about?  You  make  me 
so  horribly  shy  that  I  hardly  know  how  to  speak  to 
you;  and  yet  I  cannot  bear  to  see  you  suffering 
through  your  own  stupid  misunderstanding.  Can 
you  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  everything  of 
mine  that  has  to  do  with  love  is  yours  and  yours 
only?" 


WHEN  THE  TIDE  TURNS  273 

"  It  isn't  mine."  The  voice  came  with  a  kind 
of  moan,  half  stifled  in  the  coils  of  her  hair. 

"  It  is  no  one  else's." 

"  Celia,  do  you  mean  —  I  do  not  understand  — 
you  belong  to  some  one  else." 

"  Dear,  I  belong  to  myself.  You  want  a  bald  ex- 
plicit assurance  about  details,  and  it  is  shameful  of 
you.  I  won't  give  it  you.  I  can  only  tell  you  that 
it  is  honestly,  with  a  single  heart,  without  any  de- 
grading or  shameful  reservations  that  I  have  said 
and  can  still  say  —  I  love  you." 

She  had  turned  up  her  face  to  look  into  his  eyes 
and  had  instinctively  drawn  his  hands  a  little  closer 
about  her  neck;  but  she  was  not  prepared  for  the 
rush  of  passion  with  which  he  slipped  down  on  his 
knees  beside  her  chair  and  crushed  her  to  himself 
in  a  complete  embrace.  She  yielded  herself  without 
misgiving  or  reserve;  and  for  the  first  time,  in  the 
first  kiss,  their  lips  met.  To  Rupert  the  moment 
was  one  of  ineffable  and  almost  agonizing  realiza- 
tion ;  to  her  it  was  like  the  flinging  open  of  a  door 
into  a  new  untrodden  world  of  passion.  In  that  mo- 
ment she  knew  that  she  had  hitherto  lived  in  a  twi- 
light of  the  heart;  that  beyond  this  moment  lay  the 
sunrise  and  the  morning;  and  although  the  transi- 
tion smote  like  agony  upon  her  senses,  she  knew  that 
she  would  follow  him  through  that  perfect  and  re- 
morseless day,  to  its  noon,  to  its  night.  .  .  . 

His  lips  were  devouring  her  with  their  kisses,  his 
arms  crushing  her  in  their  embrace.  Suddenly,  at 
some  faint  sound  from  beyond  the  door,  he  tore  him- 


274  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

self  away  from  her  and  stood  up  trembling  beside 
her  chair.  The  sound  passed,  but  the  shame  and 
the  indignity  of  the  position  struck  like  a  cold  iron 
into  his  soul. 

"  Celia,  Celia,"  he  said  brokenly,  "  my  love,  my 
wonderful  love,  what  hell  and  heaven  it  is !  "  and 
then  his  voice  broke  and  he  put  his  hands  to  his 
eyes. 

"  I  daren't  stay  now  —  I  would  kill  you  or  my- 
self —  I  will  go."  And  without  another  word  he 
went  suddenly  out  of  the  room,  careless  for  once  of 
all  appearances,  and  leaving  the  explanations  to  her ; 
found  his  hat  and  coat,  and  stumbled  out  of  the 
house. 

He  was  angry  with  himself;  he  felt  that  he  had 
behaved  inconsiderately,  insanely,  and  yet  he  was  in 
the  grip  of  forces  beyond  his  own  control.  With 
the  wild  taste  of  those  first  kisses  upon  his  lips,  his 
blood  and  brain  aflame,  his  instinct  was  to  rush  away 
and  be  alone,  and  not  to  deliver  himself  over  ut- 
terly to  the  elemental  forces  he  had  evoked.  He 
walked  blindly,  hurriedly  through  the  quiet  streets 
of  Mayfair  till  he  found  himself  in  Park  Lane  and 
walking  down  towards  Piccadilly.  The  big,  silent 
mansions,  the  little  glittering  small  houses,  seemed 
to  be  bending  their  gaze  upon  him  and  saying: 
"  Take  it  quietly,  my  friend ;  you  are  not  the  first ; 
this  kind  of  thing  goes  on  in  all  of  us  continually; 
we  all  do  it;  these  little  matters  can  be  arranged. 
Look  into  my  dining-room,  into  my  drawing-room, 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  275 

take  a  peep  into  this  boudoir,  come  silently  into  my 
library.  Believe  me,  you  will  see  yourself  and  your 
actions  reflected  and  repeated  everywhere." 

A  drift  of  cold  spray  from  the  fountain  at  Ham- 
ilton Place  stung  his  cheek  as  he  passed,  and  he 
turned  into  Piccadilly.  The  tide  of  traffic  was  run- 
ning eastward,  singing  its  song  of  many  notes  — 
the  whirr  and  rasp  of  motor  omnibuses,  the  rushing 
purr  of  electromobiles,  the  rarer  clack  of  the  han- 
soms, and  the  jingling  clatter  of  omnibuses;  and 
on  his  left  the  dark  irregular  fagade  of  the  Clubs, 
behind  which  the  conventions  of  the  social  world  sat 
enthroned,  shone  with  many  lighted  windows.  They 
seemed  to  speak  to  him,  like  the  houses  in  Park 
Lane,  but  in  graver  tones,  and  with  a  shrug  of  their 
great  gloomy  shoulders. 

"  You  are  making  love  to  another  man's  wife ! 
All  right ;  do  not  tell  us  anything  about  it.  Do  not 
do  anything  to  press  it  on  our  attention.  We  do  it, 
but  it  is  not  done.  Trifle  and  play  as  much  as  you 
please;  it  is  very  amusing;  but  do  not  be  serious, 
do  not  be  in  earnest,  do  not  do  anything  about  which 
you  and  we  are  unable  to  pretend.  It  is  not  only 
sinful,  but  it  is  bad  form  to  take  these  things  seri- 
ously. It  is  not  bridge." 

He  walked  on  eastward,  through  the  dismal  pedes- 
trian throng  at  the  end  of  Piccadilly,  and  the  dread- 
ful travesty  of  love  and  pleasure  that  displays  itself 
there ;  on  across  the  garish  lights  of  Leicester  Square ; 
brushing,  with  his  golden  freight  of  spiritual  emo- 
tion, against  endless  stupidity  and  uncleanness;  on 


276  WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS 

into  the  busy  Strand  and  the  world  of  theatres  and 
restaurants  —  he,  and  Celia,  enclosed  within  flames 
in  his  heart.  He  walked  on  and  on,  the  voices  in 
him  repeating :  "  You  are  in  love  with  another 
man's  wife,  another  man's  wife."  All  that  he  had 
thought  or  not  thought  about  that  situation  before 
seemed  utterly  meaningless  and  inadequate.  All 
that  other  people  thought  of  it  seemed  suddenly  to 
be  invested  with  a  new  and  tremendous  significance. 
The  heartlessness  of  the  world  of  pleasure,  as  con- 
ventional in  its  vices  as  in  its  virtues,  struck  him 
with  a  new"  sense  of  isolation  and  loneliness;  that 
world  could  never  understand;  was  from  its  very 
nature  and  the  laws  that  governed  it  for  ever  doomed 
not  to  understand;  must  inevitably  and  infallibly 
misunderstand.  There  was  no  help  for  him  and 
Celia  there. 

From  the  glare  and  silent  consuming  activity  of 
Fleet  Street,  he  turned  down  to  the  Embankment 
and  sat  down  on  a  bench.  The  roar  still  sounded 
behind  him,  in  the  distance;  in  front  of  him  ran 
the  river  with  innumerable  fleeting  footsteps.  Pov- 
erty and  woe  shared  this  world  with  him;  there 
was  no  pleasure  nor  excitement  in  the  narrow  region 
between  the  benches  and  the  water;  things  hungry 
and  unhappy  came  there  to  be  alone.  But  they  were 
real  things;  the  cough  and  shiver  from  the  man  on 
the  bench  beside  him  had,  after  all  the  fret  and  fever 
of  the  lighted  town,  that  touch  of  sublimity  that 
belongs  to  misery  and  death.  .  .  . 


WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS  277 

Graeme.  .  .  .  What  about  Graeme  ?  How  did  he 
stand  to  Graeme  ?  He  saw  in  imagination  Graeme's 
calm,  compact,  intelligent  face,  with  its  narrow- 
pointed,  carefully-trimmed  brown  beard  —  a  man 
who  always  seemed  to  have  a  quiet  grip  of  himself 
and  of  any  situation  in  which  he  might  happen  to 
be.  But  it  was  not  a  clear  picture;  the  features  of 
Graeme  were  blurred  and  indistinct;  Rupert  tried 
to  force  himself  to  visualize  this  man  against  whose 
honour  he  was  held  to  be  sinning,  but  he  could  not 
see  Graeme  as  a  real  person.  Graeme  sank  back 
into  the  mists  of  thought,  but  Celia's  eyes  burned 
through  them  clearly  and  reassuringly;  the  light  of 
truth  was  in  them. 

As  Rupert's  pulses  calmed  down  and  his  thought 
grew  clearer,  he  realized,  with  something  like  amaze- 
ment and  something  like  dismay,  that  he  could  not 
feel  jealous  of  Graeme.  If  Graeme  had  been  cruel 
or  inconsiderate  to  his  wife,  or  violent  or  jealous, 
Rupert  thought  that  his  mind  would  have  been 
easier ;  the  world  would  have  sympathized  with  him 
for  rescuing  Celia  from  an  ogre.  But  Graeme  was 
a  perfect  gentleman,  and  kind  and  considerate  and 
lovable  to  Celia ;  there  was  no  excuse  there ;  he 
could  not  get  the  world  on  his  side  that  way. 

The  man  on  the  bench  beside  him  stirred  un- 
easily and  broke  into  a  fit  of  coughing.  An  old 
woman,  very  ragged  and  thin,  shuffled  along  looking 
on  the  ground  for  some  crusts  and  crumbs  that  had 
been  dropped  from  a  paper-bag.  The  world  was  not 
on  every  one's  side  —  why  should  it  be  ?  The  world 


278  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

had  its  own  business,  its  own  aims,  its  own  pleasures. 
It  had  very  little  concern  with  great  things,  like 
misery  and  death  and  this  burning  love  of  the  heart. 
They  were  too  big  for  its  measuring-rule.  He 
thought  of  Browning's  contrast  between  the  two 
eternal  types  of  man :  — 

"  That,  has  the  world  here.     Should  he  need  the  next 

Let  the  world  mind  him. 

This,  throws  himself  on  God,  and,  unperplext, 
Seeking,  shall  find  him." 

With  Rupert,  throwing  himself  on  God  was  equiv- 
alent to  listening  for  the  inner  voice ;  and  the  inner 
voice  told  him,  not  a  little  to  his  wonderment,  that 
in  his  love  for  Celia  there  was  no  shame,  and  that 
his  feelings  towards  Graeme  simply  did  not  exist. 
He  could  not  think  of  Graeme  in  connection  with 
the  matter  at  all,  honestly  as  he  tried  to;  he  could 
not  feel  that  Graeme  had  anything  to  do  with  it, 
in  spite  of  all  the  frowning  frontages  of  Piccadilly 
and  Pall  Mall. 

When  he  realized  this  it  was  as  though  some 
stifling  canopy  that  had  been  smothering  the  flame 
in  his  heart  and  turning  it  to  smoke  and  suffocation 
were  lifted  off,  and  the  flame  rose  bright  and  white 
and  clear.  He  turned  to  the  man  on  the  bench  be- 
side him  and  spoke  some  friendly  and  brotherly 
words,  which  made  his  gift  of  money  a  benefit  to 
them  both,  hailed  a  passing  hansom,  and  was  driven 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  279 

to  his  rooms.  But  before  he  went  to  bed  —  worn 
out,  although  it  was  still  early  —  he  sent  by  hand 
a  little  note  to  Celia,  full  of  passionate  love  and 
gratitude  and  faith  in  the  days  to  come. 


A  BATHES  pressing  note  from  an  American  col- 
lector, who  had  commissioned  a  special  set  of  draw- 
ings, reminded  Rupert  that  it  was  absolutely  neces- 
sary for  him  to  go  to  Munich  at  once  for  a  day  or 
two,  in  order  to  see  the  details  of  a  carved  ivory  cup 
in  the  National  Museum  there,  and  to  make  some 
sketches  of  the  decoration  of  a  certain  Greek  vase 
of  which  he  could  get  no  photograph.  He  liked 
travelling,  and,  as  a  rule,  these  sudden  expeditions 
were  very  pleasant  to  him ;  but  now  it  seemed  almost 
impossible  to  leave  the  country  where  Celia  was,  and 
to  withdraw  himself  from  her  even  for  forty-eight 
hours.  He  found  that  with  the  first  kiss  of  passion 
he  had  drunk  a  new  wine  which  had  become  neces- 
sary to  his  life ;  but  it  was  a  draught  that  contained 
equal  parts  of  bitter  and  sweet,  of  bliss  and  torture. 
Formerly  the  days  and  hours  in  which  he  had  been 
absent  from  her  had  been  filled  with  the  happiness 
which  he  had  stored  up  in  her  presence;  now  he 
was  miserable  when  he  was  away  from  her,  and 
often  in  her  very  presence,  with  her  hand  in  his  or 
his  lips  touching  her  cheek,  the  knowledge  that  he 
must  leave  her  again,  that  their  possession  of  one 

280 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  281 

another  was  still  incomplete,  chilled  and  darkened 
his  happiness. 

It  was  characteristic  of  him  that  he  never  thought 
of  giving  up  this  journey,  which  he  felt  to  be  neces- 
sary for  his  work;  he  was  not  one  to  cheat  himself 
with  excuses  or  to  pretend  that  he  could  put  up  with 
a  substitute  if  the  original  were  within  reach.  But 
it  was  equally  characteristic  of  him  that  he  went  to 
Celia,  and  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  begged  her, 
since  he  must  go  to  Munich  for  four  days  and  could 
not  endure  to  be  parted  from  her  for  so  long,  to  cut 
the  ties  that  bound  her,  and  come  with  him,  giving 
up  her  existing  life  then  and  there  at  four  hours' 
notice  (he  was  going  by  the  mail  that  night),  and 
join  her  life  with  his,  making  a  beginning  at  Mu- 
nich. She  half  laughed  and  half  cried  at  him,  but 
when  he  pressed  her  she  only  shook  her  head  in  a 
bewildered  sort  of  way. 

"  If  we  ever  go,  Rupert  dear  —  " 

"  //  — "  he  repeated,  looking  searchingly  into 
her  eyes. 

"  Well,  then,  when  we  go,"  she  said,  "  it  won't  be 
like  this,  bolting  like  rabbits  and  scuffling  off  by  a 
night-train.  Rupert,  it  is  so  untidy  and  undignified 
of  people !  And  besides  —  " 

"  Besides  what  ?  " 

"  I  don't  quite  know,  but  I  somehow  feel  that  we 
have  all  the  world  and  the  whole  of  life  before  us  if 
only  we  are  wise  and  unselfish,  and  that  everything 
will  come  to  us  if  we  don't  grasp  at  it  too  greedily. 
We  are  not  ready  yet  —  we  have  not  earned  it." 


282  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

"  How  can  we  earn  it  ?  It's  one  of  the  things  you 
must  do  first  and  earn  afterwards." 

"  Ah,  my  Rupert !  "  shaking  her  head ;  "  it  is 
because  you  are  like  that,  that  I  mustn't  be  also. 
You  can  be  wise  for  me,  dear  one,  but  I  must  be 
wise  for  you." 

Nevertheless  the  pang  of  separation,  even  for  a 
few  days,  was  a  very  real  one,  and  as  Rupert  drove 
back  to  his  rooms  he  was  thinking  of  the  Celia  he 
had  left  sitting  in  the  house  to  which  her  husband 
would  presently  return,  and  he  was  oppressed  by 
a  hundred  nameless  apprehensions  which  all  his 
knowledge  of  her  and  trust  in  her  could  not  abate. 
He  had  no  sooner  got  home  than  he  sent  back  a 
note  to  her  in  which  he  wrote  in  agonized  words  of 
his  new  terror  of  the  hours  of  separation.  The  mes- 
senger brought  back  a  comforting,  reassuring  letter 
from  Celia,  and  with  it  a  little  Italian  ring, 
once  her  mother's,  on  the  inside  of  which  was  en- 
graved the  single  word  "  forse"  In  the  letter  she 
said :  — 

"  You  need  have  no  fears  of  the  l  midnight  hours.' 
I  have  come  to  realize  more  than  most  women  how 
impassable  are  the  barriers  of  the  soul,  that,  in  fact, 
they  are  the  only  barriers  that  are  really  impassable, 
and  are  never  even  assailed.  Remember  that  you 
take  me  with  you  on  every  step  of  your  way,  that 
there  are  no  lands  and  seas  between  us,  that  I  kiss 
your  hands  and  your  eyes,  and  that  I  am  for  ever 
and  ever  your  very  own." 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  283 

Yet,  although  his  heart  was  warm  with  love,  he 
had  never  felt  quite  so  lonely  as  he  felt  on  that 
bright  spring  afternoon,  while  the  train  was  drag- 
ging its  tiresome  way  along  the  banks  of  the  Rhine, 
and  the  endless  succession  of  smoky  towns,  pepper- 
pot  schlosses  and  imitation  ruins  crowning  the  bluff 
vine-covered  crags  rolled  past  the  window  in  a  fa- 
miliar and  disagreeable  panorama.  He  thought  it 
was  mere  absence  from  Celia  and  the  fact  that  he 
was  travelling  away  from  her  that  made  him  so  un- 
happy; he  had  not  realized  that  passionate  love  is 
a  condition  of  pain,  and  of  profound  dissatisfaction 
with  all  sensations  except  one.  But  in  the  twilight, 
when  the  muddy  stream  of  the  Rhine  had  been  left 
behind  and  the  train  was  climbing  through  the 
wooded  Bavarian  uplands,  he  began  to  be  conscious 
of  the  eternal  conflict  of  those  great  allies  of  the 
artist  —  love  and  work.  That  he  must  live  by  both, 
live  for  both,  he  knew ;  and  as  he  felt  the  tug  of  love 
upon  his  heart-strings,  and  the  quite  different  thrill 
in  his  finger-tips  that  reminded  him  of  the  world  of 
art  to  which  he  was  hurrying  for  his  work's  sake, 
he  wondered  dimly  what  miracle  could  be  wrought 
by  which  these  two  opposing  forces  could  ever  be 
reconciled  or  made  to  pull  together.  Which  was  the 
stronger  ?  Love,  of  course ;  and  yet  he  was  in  Ba- 
varia travelling  south-east  at  forty  miles  an  hour, 
while  Celia  lay  behind  him  somewhere  in  the  night 
that  was  gathering  over  the  north-west,  hundreds  of 
miles  away. 


284  WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS 

He  stayed  no  longer  in  Munich  than  was  neces- 
sary for  three  visits  to  the  National  Museum  and 
the  filling  of  a  score  of  pages  in  his  sketch-book.  He 
went  about  amid  the  familiar  scenes  in  a  condition 
in  which  two  extremes  of  mind  were  curiously  min- 
gled: a  state  of  depression  which  was  partly  caused 
by  absence  from  Celia,  and  partly,  much  more  than 
he  knew,  by  the  unsatisfactory  circumstances  of  their 
love;  and  a  sense  of  exaltation  with  which  he  an- 
swered this  other  mood  and  in  which  he  sought  to 
escape  from  it.  He  told  himself,  and  indeed  felt 
with  half  his  nature,  that  he  held  the  world  in  the 
hollow  of  his  hand;  that  he  had  attained  the  great 
things  in  life  which  he  had  sought;  that  he  was 
among  the  Gods  and  not  among  the  mortals. 

Although  he  was  only  three  days  in  Munich,  he 
found  time  to  visit  one  or  two  shrines;  to  sit  for 
half-an-hour  before  the  Virgin  of  Rogier  van  der 
Weyden  and  let  its  great  major  triad  of  blue,  rose, 
and  green  sink  into  his  soul;  to  pay  his  homage  to 
the  chorus  of  colour  in  the  Rubens  room  that  is  one 
of  the  glories  of  Munich;  and  to  stand  for  a  mo- 
ment before  the  Midas  of  Nicolas  Poussin  and  con- 
firm once  more  the  rather  unusual  degree  of  his 
admiration  of  that  work.  And  he  found  time  to 
wander  through  the  English  garden,  and  to  watch 
the  hurrying  stream  of  the  Isar,  cold  and  green  from 
its  glacier  birth,  sliding  and  bustling  like  a  rather 
furtive  alien  through  the  tender  April  foliage  of  the 
garden. 

And  within  a  week  he  was  back  in  London. 


XI 

CELIA  had  not  expected  that  Rupert  would  be 
back  so  soon,  and  had  arranged  to  spend  the  end 
of  the  week  with  a  friend  in  the  country;  so  that 
Rupert,  coming  home  on  Saturday  evening,  found 
London  empty.  Under  the  circumstances  it  was  un- 
endurable; so  he  telegraphed  to  Lady  Waynefleete, 
who  was  at  Gwithian  Castle,  asking  if  he  might  go 
down  to  her  until  Monday.  In  a  couple  of  hours 
he  had  got  her  answer,  and  caught  the  night  express 
to  Cornwall. 

Just  before  he  left  a  large  parcel  was  delivered 
at  his  flat  containing  half-a-dozen  copies  of  the 
"  Syrian  Songs."  He  was  so  busy  with  his  hurried 
preparations  for  departure  that  he  had  time  only  for 
a  glance  at  the  beautiful  volumes  in  their  bindings 
of  white  vellum  adorned  with  his  own  exquisite  de- 
sign in  gold,  and  to  write  his  name  and  Celia's  in 
the  top  one,  which  he  handed  to  Hicks  with  instruc- 
tions that  it  was  to  be  sent  by  a  special  messenger 
to  Mrs.  Graeme  in  the  country  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning.  He  took  another  copy  with  him  for  Lady 
Waynefleete,  and  departed  into  the  night. 

He  arrived  at  Gwithian  next  morning  before  his 
285 


286 

hostess  was  downstairs,  but  he  sent  a  copy  of  "  Syr- 
ian Songs  "  to  her  by  a  servant,  and  then  went  to 
have  his  bath  and  change.  The  interest  he  had  taken 
in  the  book  had  to  a  great  extent  evaporated;  he 
had  hardly  any  curiosity  about  it,  and  while  he  was 
dressing  he  merely  opened  it  and  turned  the  pages 
quickly  over,  looking  cursorily  at  his  own  drawings, 
but  lacking  the  curiosity  to  read  a  line  of  the  poems. 
The  book  was  exquisitely  produced ;  merely  to  touch 
the  leaves  was  a  joy;  and  Rupert  remembered  with 
what  impatience  and  excitement  he  had  often  looked 
forward  to  this  moment  when  he  would  be  able  ac- 
tually to  handle  it.  But  all  that  impatience  had 
disappeared,  and  when  he  had  seen  that  the  repro- 
ductions of  his  drawings  looked  well  he  was  sat- 
isfied. 

Lady  Waynefleete  presently  joined  the  small 
party  gathered  after  breakfast  in  the  hall,  where 
Rupert  was  talking  about  the  culture  of  asparagus 
to  the  solemn  Miss  Thudichum.  There  were  one  or 
two  other  people  there  looking  at  the  papers  and 
making  plans  for  the  day,  and  Lady  Waynefleete 
had  to  thank  him  more  in  looks  than  in  words  for 
the  present  he  had  sent  her  when  he  arrived.  But 
he  thought  there  was  something  a  little  odd  in  her 
manner  —  something  as  nearly  approaching  embar- 
rassment as  she  was  capable  of  showing,  and  he  won- 
dered if  it  had  anything  to  do  with  him  or  if  it  was 
merely  the  result  of  some  small  accident  in  the  well- 
oiled  machinery  of  her  house. 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  287 

Presently  she  asked  him  to  go  to  her  sitting-room 
and  talk  to  her,  and  as  soon  as  they  were  alone  she 
revealed  the  cause  of  her  embarrassment. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Savage,"  she  began,  "  I  don't 
know  how  to  thank  you  for  your  beautiful  book,  but 
may  I  ask  if  you  have  read  it  ?  " 

Rupert  laughed.  "  No,  I  don't  think  I  have,"  he 
said. 

"  Looked  at  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  certainly  nothing  more  than  that.  Why  ? 
Is  there  anything  wrong  with  it  ?  " 

She  picked  up  the  white  volume,  opened  it  at  a 
certain  page,  and  said :  "  Read  that."  It  was  a 
poem  called  "  The  Rose  of  Sharon,"  and  was  not  one 
of  those  Rupert  had  illustrated.  As  he  read  it  in 
the  presence  of  Lady  Waynefleete,  he  felt  his  skin 
beginning  to  tingle.  He  had,  in  fact,  never  read 
anything  quite  like  it  before.  Its  beauty  was  unde- 
niable, as  also  were  its  perversity  and  corruption. 
As  Rupert  read  on,  he  saw  that  none  of  his  cus- 
tomary arguments  about  the  freedom  of  art  could 
really  excuse  anything  quite  so  disagreeable. 

"  I  agree  with  you,"  he  said,  looking  up  at  Lady 
Waynefleete ;  "  it  is  deplorable.  I  wish  to  goodness 
now  that  I  had  seen  it  before  it  was  printed,  as  I 
might  have  saved  poor  Midwood  from  giving  him- 
self away  so  badly.  It  is  not  fair  to  himself  or  his 
own  reputation  to  print  stuff  like  this." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  am  profoundly  uninterested  in 
Mr.  Midwood's  reputation,"  said  Lady  Waynefleete, 


288  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

"  but  I  am  interested  in  you  and  in  what  people 
think  of  you,  and  it  is  for  your  sake  that  I  am  con- 
cerned about  this.  I  wish  it  had  not  happened." 

The  idea  of  its  connection  with  him  had  not  oc- 
curred to  Rupert  before,  and  he  brushed  it  aside 
now.  "  I  hardly  think  that  anybody  will  think  more 
or  less  about  my  drawing  because  Midwood  is  foolish 
enough  to  include  stuff  like  this  in  his  work." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure,"  she  said  gravely.  "  The 
whole  thing  looks  to  me  very  serious.  You  won't 
mind  my  saying  that  I  think  some  of  the  poems  are 
quite  disgraceful,  and  that  the  book  should  never 
have  been  published.  I  am  horrified  to  think  that 
you  are  associated  with  it.  Just  read  these  poems 
through,  and  I  think  you  will  agree  with  me.  Stay 
here  for  a  few  minutes  while  I  go  and  speak  to  the 
housekeeper." 

When  she  had  gone,  Rupert  sat  down  with  a  sigh, 
and  read  the  "  Syrian  Songs  "  through  from  begin- 
ning to  end.  The  impression  they  produced  upon 
him  was  a  singular  one.  He  was  first  charmed,  then 
interested,  then  disappointed,  then  rather  revolted, 
and  then,  perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  thor- 
oughly shocked.  He  had  never  before  realized  to 
what  a  limit  the  technical  perfection  of  art  could 
be  pushed  in  its  association  with  rank  perversity. 
Midwood  had  gone  out  of  his  way  to  outrage  the 
taste  of  the  day  in  its  every  convention;  and  yet 
the  result  was  not  destructive  and  defiant  so  much 
as  impudent  and  ugly.  For  once,  and  with  a  ven- 
geance, the  emancipated  art  had  over-reached  itself. 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  289 

And  as  Rupert  turned  the  pages  and  saw  inter- 
leaved with  them  his  own  beautiful  work,  he  began 
to  realize  with  a  certain  sinking  of  heart  in  what 
light  his  own  association  with  the  poems  might  ap- 
pear. He  had  never  done  better  work  than  he  had 
put  into  these  eighteen  perfect  pages ;  the  tinge  of 
morbidity  that  had  marked  his  earlier  period  was 
completely  absent  from  them,  and  sheer  beauty  of 
line  and  conception  had  taken  its  place.  Yet  in 
their  way  they  fitted  wonderfully  to  the  strange  and 
fantastic  atmosphere  of  the  poems;  he  had  been  so 
well  inspired  by  Midwood's  descriptions  that  no  one 
would  believe  that  he  had  never  read  the  verses  them- 
selves. 

It  was  a  bitter  humiliation  and  disappointment  to 
him  that  his  best  work  should  thus  appear  as  the 
handmaid  of  something  which,  although  it  was  not 
so  contemptible  as  public  opinion  would  hold  it  to 
be,  was  yet  really  unworthy.  When  Lady  Wayne- 
fleete  came  into  the  room  again  she  found  him  look- 
ing very  grave  indeed.  He  shut  the  book  up  and 
put  it  away. 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  he  said.  "  This  is  a  hor- 
rible blow  to  me.  I  don't  know  what  to  say  or  what 
to  do.  The  whole  thing  is  so  complicated.  I  believe 
the  subscription  copies  have  all  gone  out,  and  that 
a  dozen  copies  were  sent  to  the  Press  nearly  a  week 
ago.  It's  gone  beyond  recall.  I  cannot  think  how 
Midwood  let  himself  go  like  this  —  he  must  be  mad, 
and  Steinman  too." 

"  Steinman  ?  "  said  Lady  Waynefleete. 


290  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

"  Yes,  Freddy  Steinman,  you  know,  the  brother. 
He  must  have  seen  the  poems ;  he  must  have  known 
all  about  it,  and  be  playing  some  confounded  little 
Jewish  game  of  his  own.  I  suppose  that  is  why  he 
did  not  want  to  put  his  name  on  it.  He  knew  that 
if  I  had  seen  the  poems  I  would  have  objected,  and 
so  I  was  never  told,  and  was  fool  enough  not  to  want 
to  read  them  until  I  saw  the  whole  thing  complete." 

"  But  surely  you  knew  what  kind  of  a  man  Mr. 
Midwood  was  ?  "  asked  Lady  Waynefleete.  "  You 
know  his  other  work;  and  although,  of  course,  it 
is  nothing  like  this,  it  is  tinged  with  the  same  kind 
of  thing,  and  you  know  what  people  say  about  him. 
My  dear  Mr.  Savage,  I  make  a  point  of  ignoring 
unpleasant  things  when  I  can,  and  gossip  of  this 
kind  does  not  interest  me  —  it  is  generally  untrue ; 
but  surely  you  know  what  even  Mr.  Midwood's 
friends  say  ?  I  somehow  thought  you  knew  all  about 
him." 

"  In  a  way  I  know  him  very  well,  and  in  a  way 
I  don't.  I  believe  in  his  work,  I  think  he  is  a  great 
poet,  and  nothing  he  does  of  this  kind  can  alter  the 
fact  that  he  has  done  some  of  the  finest  work  of  his 
day;  and  from  my  point  of  view  that  is  so  much 
more  important  than  anything  else,  that  I  am  in- 
clined to  ignore  his  eccentricities.  I  have  never  been 
interested  in  that  side  of  Midwood,  and  never  come 
much  in  contact  with  it.  He  has  always  been  a  good 
friend  to  me,  and  even  now  I  don't  believe  he  would 
have  published  these  poems  without  my  seeing  them 
if  he  had  dreamed  for  a  moment  that  I  would  ob- 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  291 

ject.  I  must  think  it  all  out,"  he  continued  heavily ; 
"  but  I  do  not  see  that  there  is  very  much  to  be  done. 
You  had  better  burn  that  beastly  book." 

"  Indeed,  I  will  do  no  such  thing,"  said  Lady 
Waynefleete.  "  I  prize  it  very  much  because  you 
gave  it  to  me,  and  because  of  your  beautiful  draw- 
ings. I  needn't  read  the  poems  if  I  don't  want  to. 
And  as  you  can  do  nothing  until  Monday  in  any 
case,  I  forbid  you  to  think  any  more  about  it  until 
then,  and  to  try  and  amuse  yourself  in  this  dull 
place  as  well  as  you  can." 

*  •••••  ••• 

But  it  was  not  easy  for  Rupert  to  put  it  out  of 
his  head.  In  the  middle  of  some  quite  ordinary 
conversation  with  one  of  his  fellow-guests,  he  would 
suddenly  be  seized  with  a  chill  of  remembrance,  and 
then  grow  hot  all  over  with  the  thought  of  the  kind 
of  thing  his  name  was  going  to  be  associated  with. 
A  sense  grew  upon  him  of  impending  disaster;  he 
felt  almost  guilty  himself  when  he  realized  the  ex- 
tent of  the  insult  which  he  and  Midwood  had  offered, 
not  only  to  the  public  and  its  Philistine  tastes  and 
conventions,  but,  as  he  began  to  think,  to  literature 
and  art  themselves. 

He  had  always  been  a  believer  in  art  of  every 
kind  being  entirely  separated  from  ideas  of  moral- 
ity or  immorality,  but  he  realized  how  in  following 
a  similar  line,  Midwood  had  become  more  preoccu- 
pied with  such  ideas  than  the  most  Philistine  middle- 
class  father  of  the  family  could  ever  be;  and  that 
his  work,  therefore,  as  well  as  being  profoundly  im- 


292  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

moral,  had  become  profoundly  inartistic.  He  showed 
his  disgust  with  morality  more  aggressively  even 
than  the  ordinary  man  showed  his  disgust  with 
freedom  of  ideas ;  and  on  the  whole  his  was  the  less 
respectable  attitude. 

Rupert  tried  to  throw  himself  into  the  pursuits 
of  the  house,  but  it  was  difficult  to  escape  from  his 
own  thoughts,  and  he  accepted  with  relief  Lady 
Waynefleete's  proposal  to  drive  him  over  with  her 
to  lunch  on  Sunday  at  a  neighbouring  place  where 
there  was  a  large  house  party.  It  was  a  lovely  day, 
and  as  they  drove  over  the  downs,  and  the  honey- 
sweet  air  swept  over  them  in  a  soft  scented  billow, 
the  trouble  faded  a  little  into  the  background  of 
Rupert's  mind.  It  all  seemed  so  unreal  there  on  the 
great  lonely  sea-scented  tableland  at  the  end  of  Eng- 
land, where  few  poems  had  ever  been  written  or 
read,  and  where  the  very  echoes  of  the  songs  that 
had  been  sung  had  died  away  centuries  before.  He 
was  very  silent,  and  Lady  Waynefleete,  like  a  good 
friend,  was  in  sympathy  with  his  mood ;  so  they  did 
not  talk  much,  and  he  was  free  to  think  about  Celia, 
and  to  remember  that  he  would  see  her  within  thirty- 
six  hours.  She  really  filled  his  heart;  she  loved 
him!  It  was  impossible  to  take  anything  else  very 
seriously. 

They  found  a  large  and  rather  smart  party  as- 
sembled on  the  lawn  at  Penhale  Abbey  —  the  won- 
derful ten-acre  mown  lawn  from  which  you  look 
down  over  the  tops  of  oak  trees  on  one  of  the  love- 
liest harbours  in  England.  And  almost  the  first 


WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS  293 

thing  that  Rupert  saw  among  the  throng  of  guests 
was  a  well-remembered  figure,  slight  and  trim  and 
familiar  —  Lady  Fastnet. 

As  he  looked  at  her,  and  as  he  worked  his  way 
nearer  to  her  through  a  succession  of  introductions, 
it  seemed  as  though  it  were  only  yesterday  that  he 
had  walked  so  blindly  and  miserably  out  of  her 
house  in  Dublin;  and  yet  a  wider  gulf  than  time 
seemed  to  separate  him  from  her  and  that  day  from 
the  present. 

There  was  not  the  least  embarrassment  in  his 
greeting  of  her,  though  he  thought  there  was  a  strain 
of  shyness  in  her  manner  to  him.  He  dispelled  that 
by  saying  at  once :  — 

"  I  see  you  are  exactly  the  same  Lady  Fastnet, 
and  I  am  the  same  Rupert,  so  we  need  waste  no 
time  in  being  embarrassed  with  each  other.  I  have 
often  thought  about  you  in  all  these  years,  and  only 
about  how  kind  you  were  to  me,  and  how  good  you 
were  for  me !  " 

The  old  gay  smile  lighted  up  the  sky-grey  eyes 
and  relaxed  the  severe  mouth.  "  It  is  very  nice  of 
you  to  say  that,  Mr.  Savage  —  or  may  I  still  call 
you  Rupert?  You  see  everything  has  come  true 
exactly  as  we  predicted,  except  that  I  don't  think 
we  ever  imagined  what  giddy  heights  of  genius  and 
fame  were  in  store  for  us !  " 

"  Oh,  please  don't  let  us  talk  about  genius  and 
fame,"  said  Rupert,  with  a  little  of  his  old  boyish 
impatience.  "  We  have  talked  enough  about  me  to 
last  for  a  lifetime.  You  shall  tell  me  about  your- 


294  WHEN   THE  TIDE    TURNS 

self  —  a  subject  I  think  we  rather  neglected  in  the 
old  days." 

•  •*•••  •  *  • 

They  were  separated  at  luncheon,  Rupert  having 
to  sit  between  the  old  and  rather  deaf  Marchioness 
of  Exmouth,  who  would  talk  about  nothing  but  im- 
proprieties, and  her  pretty  daughter  Lady  Clemen- 
tine, who  entertained  him  with  a  vivid  description 
of  her  mother  being  sick  on  the  yacht,  and  with  an 
extremely  witty  and  artistic  survey  of  sea-sickness 
in  general  and  other  kinds  of  internal  disturbances. 
In  the  intervals  of  this  dainty  talk  he  looked  across 
the  table  sometimes  at  Geraldine  Fastnet,  who  was 
dividing  herself  gracefully  between  the  ardent  at- 
tention of  one  of  the  younger  sons  of  the  house  and 
another  boy  just  home  from  Eton.  She  was  think- 
ing of  the  years  gone  by,  when  the  handsome,  dis- 
tinguished-looking man  opposite,  who  was  run  after 
by  everybody  and  whose  name  was  famous  in  two 
Continents,  brought  to  her  feet  an  admiration  and 
devotion  just  as  boyish  as  theirs,  though  perhaps  of 
different  quality.  And  Rupert,  when  their  eyes  met 
in  a  friendly  smile,  was  feeling  how  odd  it  was  to 
be  able  to  look  at  her  without  emotion ;  how  strange 
to  be  sitting  opposite  her  and  not  to  be  fuming  be- 
cause he  was  not  beside  her ;  how  wonderful  that  the 
same  fair  face  and  form  that  once  had  meant  the 
whole  of  life  and  the  world  to  him  should  now  be 
without  any  power  even  to  please  or  displease  him, 
just  because  the  intangible  spirit  of  love  no  longer 
glorified  her  in  his  eyes. 


WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS  295 

It  was  the  same  after  luncheon  when  he  sought 
her  out  again  and  spent  the  afternoon  walking  with 
her  through  the  wonderful  Penhale  gardens.  He 
was  aware  that  he  only  liked  her  now  because  she 
reminded  him  of  his  past  self.  He  felt  an  odd  sense 
of  superiority,  just  because  he  was  no  longer  in  love 
with  her;  but  she  made  him  feel  rather  lonely,  and 
filled  him  with  longing  for  Celia  and  the  sound  of 
Celia's  voice.  He  gathered  that  her  life  had  not 
changed  much,  that  she  still  escaped  from  Castle 
Fastnet  whenever  she  could,  but  that  her  sense  of 
duty  took  her  there  fairly  often,  to  the  sole  company 
of  her  now  semi-invalid  husband,  who  refused  to 
leave  home  and  hated  to  have  people  staying  in  the 
house. 

She  made  it  clear  to  Rupert  that  while  his  life  had 
so  gloriously  grown  and  developed,  hers  had  stood 
still.  He  would  have  liked  to  be  kinder  to  her,  to 
be  fonder  of  her,  to  be  more  absorbed  in  her  than 
he  was;  but  he  was  painfully  aware  that  he  had 
outgrown  her,  and  he  hated  himself  for  seeing  it. 
He  was  afraid  that  she  had  formerly  taken  posses- 
sion of  his  youthful  imagination  simply  because  she 
was  strange  and  new,  and  unlike  anything  he  had 
known;  now  he  knew  her  type  well,  and  she  had 
no  interest  for  him.  She  had  lost  her  understanding 
of  him,  too;  she  was  a  little  afraid  of  him  and  of 
his  fearless,  unconventional  views  of  life  and  con- 
duct; she  felt  a  little  like  a  mother  whose  child  has 
grown  up  and  left  the  home;  she  would  have  called 
him  back  if  she  could,  but  she  knew  that  he  would 


296  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

never  again  come  to  her  call.  She  summed  up  her 
limited  comprehension  of  him  in  a  pathetic  little 
epigram :  "  You  approve  of  good  women,  and  rather 
pity  them."  He  knew  then  that  he  could  never 
make  her  understand  what  he  thought  about  women. 
These  rather  painful  discoveries  along  the  for- 
saken trail  of  an  old  sentiment  occupied  his  mind, 
at  any  rate,  for  the  afternoon,  and  kept  his  thoughts 
from  brooding  on  the  forthcoming  trouble  connected 
with  the  book.  Lady  Waynefleete  on  the  drive  home 
was  rewarded  for  her  silence  in  the  morning  by  a 
brisk  and  high-spirited  conversation,  in  which  Ru- 
pert's quick,  intelligent  and  humorous  mind  was 
at  its  best  and  gayest. 

But  he  came  back  to  reality  the  next  morning. 
He  went  up  by  the  early  train,  and  got  the  London 
papers  at  Plymouth.  He  turned  one  over  after  an- 
other, and  was  relieved  to  find  no  mention  of  the 
"  Syrian  Songs  "  in  the  first  half-dozen ;  but  as  he 
opened  The  Messenger,  that  great  organ  of  English 
middle-class  opinion,  his  eye  was  caught  by  a  big 
headline  in  the  middle  of  the  front  page.  He  set- 
tled grimly  down  to  read  an  ably-written  and 
weighty  denunciation  that  filled  a  column  and  a  half. 

It  was  worse  even  than  he  had  thought;  there 
was  no  question  of  dismissing  the  book  with  con- 
tempt; the  writer  of  the  article  invited  public  at- 
tention to  it,  referring  to  the  manner  of  its  publi- 
cation as  being  likely  to  provide  a  kind  of  screen  for 
it,  and  warning  his  readers  that  they  had  a  duty  in 


WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS  297 

the  matter  of  works  of  this  kind,  although  they  were 
on  subjects  which  might  not  as  a  rule  come  within 
the  range  of  their  interest.  There  was  a  personal 
bitterness  and  rancour  underlying  the  article,  which, 
although  it  was  well  concealed,  added  to  the  inten- 
sity and  scorn  of  the  indictment.  There  was  no 
attempt  to  separate  Rupert  and  Midwood  or  to  dis- 
criminate between  them;  most  unfairly  their  work 
was  lumped  together  and  treated  as  the  deliberate 
collaboration  which  it  appeared  to  be,  and  indeed 
ought  to  have  been. 

Rupert  had  had  some  vague  idea,  more  for  the 
sake  of  his  friends  than  for  his  own  sake,  of  asking 
Midwood  to  explain  that  the  drawings  had  been 
made  quite  independently  for  the  poems;  but  he 
felt  that  that  was  impossible  now.  He  must  stand 
by  Midwood  and  take  his  share  of  the  responsibility 
for  the  thing  which  bore  their  two  names. 

The  writer  of  the  article  ended  his  powerful  and 
passionate  denunciation  of  what  he  called  unclean- 
ness  in  art  by  an  appeal  to  public  opinion  against 
the  whole  of  the  group  of  whose  work,  as  he  said, 
a  book  like  this  was  the  inevitable  blossom.  He 
demanded  its  instant  suppression,  and  hinted  that 
the  prosecution  of  the  publishers  (who  were  also  the 
authors)  might  afford  a  wholesome  example;  in 
any  case  he  promised  his  readers  that  the  matter 
should  not  be  allowed  to  rest  so  far  as  the  influence 
of  his  paper  was  concerned. 

The  effect  of  all  this  upon  Rupert  was  to  make 
him  feel  rather  sick.  In  one  way,  and  only  in  one 


298  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

way,  he  was  on  the  side  of  the  writer;  he  had 
shared  the  feelings  of  repulsion  with  which  he  had 
evidently  read  the  poems.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
he  felt  dumbly  the  gross  injustice  to  which  his  own 
perfectly  sound  work  was  subjected  in  being  looked 
at  through  the  light  of  Midwood's  moral  eccentricity. 
He  was  jealous  for  his  work  and  for  his  reputation, 
and  wanted  to  save  them  from  any  association  likely 
to  be  damaging ;  and  here  he  had  deliberately  placed 
them  in  a  false  and  degrading  position.  It  was  hor- 
rible. 

He  telegraphed  to  Caird  and  Sibley  asking  them 
urgently  to  dine  with  him.  Caird  came  first  and 
greeted  Rupert  heartily.  "  Well,  it  has  come,  my 
friend,"  he  said ;  "  I  hope  you  are  ready  for  it." 

"  What  has  come  ?  "  asked  Rupert. 

"  Fame,  success,  the  pinnacle  of  fame  —  and  like- 
wise the  end  of  all  that.  There  will  be  some  dust 
and  trouble,  and  then  you  can  settle  down  to  work 
in  earnest;  but  the  bubble  is  pricked,  I  am  afraid." 

"  Do  you  think  it's  going  to  be  serious  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  said  Caird.  "  The  English  people  have 
very  few  ideas,  but  they  have  very  definite  ones. 
They  like  impropriety,  provided  you  wrap  it  up  in 
a  blanket  of  sentiment,  and  they  will  stand  an  attack 
on  their  religion  provided  it  is  delivered  by  a  strict 
ascetic  moralist;  but  a  man  who  mixes  up  religion 
and  immorality,  and  lays  unclean  hands  on  New 
Testament  history,  they  have  no  mercy  upon.  And 
I  don't  know  but  what  they  are  right.  They  don't 


WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS  299 

believe  in  much,  but  they  have  a  fine  sense  of  rev- 
erence in  what  they  do  believe  in,  and  they  don't 
want  their  temples  defiled.  Which  of  us  does  ?  " 

"  There  is  a  storm  brewing,"  said  Sibley,  who 
had  joined  them  in  Rupert's  rooms ;  "  and  I  think 
we  shall  all  be  in  it.  There  are  certain  things,  as 
you  say,  that  the  dear  British  Public  will  not  stand 
at  any  price,  and  Midwood  seems  to  have  thought  of 
them  all.  Did  no  one  see  these  poems,  Rupert  ?  " 

"  IsTot  a  soul,  except  perhaps  Freddy  Steinman, 
and  even  he,  if  he  had  an  inkling  of  what  they  were 
like,  I  expect  made  a  point  of  not  seeing  them. 
Where  is  he,  by  the  way  ?  " 

"  Hiding,"  said  Sibley. 

"  We  must  smoke  him  out,"  said  Rupert,  "  and 
yet  —  the  beastliness  of  the  whole  thing  is  that  one 
can't  do  anything.  I  can't  thrash  Steinman,  because 
the  little  beast  hasn't  done  anything  to  deserve  it. 
He  has  acted  according  to  his  lights.  It  is  I  who 
have  been  the  fool.  Has  any  one  seen  Midwood  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Sibley,  "  and  from  what  I  hear  no  one 
is  likely  to.  He  has  vanished.  I  am  afraid  there 
will  be  an  awful  row." 

"  I  confess  I  do  not  think  the  poems  are  very 
good;  but  I  see  what  you  mean  about  the  extraor- 
dinarily infuriating  effect  they  will  have ;  also  Mid- 
wood's  life  won't  very  well  bear  prying  into." 

"  When  they  realize  what  he  has  done,"  said 
Caird,  "  they  will  lynch  him  if  they  can  catch  him. 
Man,  Rupert,  you  are  a  grand  hand  at  the  drawing, 
but  I  doubt  you  are  no  very  great  hand  at  managing 


300  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

your  own  affairs.  Well,  it  will  be  a  fine  thing  for 
you  all  the  same  —  just  a  clean  sweep  of  all  the  gilt 
and  tinsel  out  of  your  life,  and  nothing  left  but  your 
real  friends  and  your  work." 

"  They  can't  do  very  much  to  me,"  said  Rupert, 
a  little  defiantly.  "  They  can  say  I  am  tarred  with 
the  same  brush,  but  they  can't  make  it  true  if  it  is 
not." 

"  !N"o,"  said  Caird,  "  maybe  they  cannot  do  much, 
but  they  can  do  just  this,  and  they  will  do  it  —  put 
you  under  a  moral  ban  and  ignore  you.  I  may  be 
exaggerating  what's  in  the  air,  but  I  don't  think  so. 
If  I  am  right,  the  whole  of  your  work  will  be  so 
identified  with  Midwood's  downfall  that,  for  a  time 
at  least,  no  publisher  will  publish  it,  and  no  editor 
who  has  a  magazine  will  buy  one  of  your  drawings, 
and  they  will  be  kept  in  the  back-rooms  and  locked 
cases  of  the  picture  shops.  Your  name  won't  be 
mentioned  in  polite  society,"  added  Caird,  with  a 
grin.  "  Man,  it's  a  disgrace  to  England,  but  it's 
splendid  for  you  \  " 

"  Well,  we  shall  see,"  said  Rupert.  "  I  think, 
perhaps,  you  are  wrong,  but  we  shall  see." 


XII 

CELIA  GKAEME  was  sitting  in  her  room,  a  white 
vellum  book  before  her,  and  on  it  a  note  from  Ru- 
pert asking  if  he  might  come  to  lunch  that  day  as 
he  had  something  important  to  tell  her.  Her  brows 
were  knitted ;  she  was  trying  to  think  out  a  difficult 
problem  with  the  calm  deliberation  of  mind  that  she 
brought  to  all  the  affairs  of  her  inner  life;  but  she 
was  really  puzzled.  She  had  had  two  days  to  con- 
sider the  book  and  all  that  it  might  mean.  She  was 
aware  of  the  strange  chance  that  had  prevented  Ru- 
pert from  knowing  about  the  poems  before  it  was 
published,  and  her  whole  heart  was  going  out  to  him 
and  sharing  the  mortification  and  misery  which  she 
knew  he  must  be  feeling.  She  had  looked  upon  the 
book,  certainly  upon  his  share  of  it,  as  a  child  of 
his  and  hers;  her  eagerness  in  looking  forward  to 
its  appearance  had  been  even  greater  than  his;  she 
knew  how  good  his  work  in  it  was,  and  she  had  felt 
a  very  real  though  quiet  pride  in  the  fact  that  he 
had  done  his  best  work  in  intimate  association  with 
her.  And  now  it  was  all  spoilt,  and  worse  than 
spoilt,  by  this  horrible  accident  that  had  turned 
what  ought  to  have  been  the  means  of  increasing  his 

301 


302  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

reputation  and  good  fame  before  the  world  into  a 
means  of  degradation  and  something  like  disgrace. 

Midwood's  poems  puzzled  rather  than  disgusted 
her.  She  was  not  sure  she  understood  all  their  veiled, 
erotic  allusiveness,  but  her  instinct  rejected  them  as 
something  not  sound  or  true  to  life  and  art.  She 
was  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  a  little  frightened 
—  not  for  herself,  but  for  Rupert.  What  effect 
would  it  have  upon  him?  She  wanted  above  all 
things  to  be  with  him;  she  knew  that  he  must  be 
full  of  anxiety  to  talk  to  her  about  the  situation; 
she  had  seen  the  scathing  denunciation  in  The  Mes- 
senger, and  there  were  two  equally  indignant  and 
damning  reviews  that  morning  in  papers  which  had 
not  before  noticed  the  book. 

Her  husband  came  into  the  room  while  she  was 
still  thinking,  and  she  gave  him  Rupert's  note,  which 
consisted  of  only  a  few  formal  lines. 

"  Poor  Rupert,"  she  said.  "  He  must  be  terribly 
distressed  about  this,  and  want  to  talk  about  it." 

Her  husband  sat  down  on  a  chair  beside  her.  He 
read  the  note  and  then  looked  up. 

"  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about  that,  Celia.  I 
did  not  say  anything  last  night  after  you  showed 
me  the  book,  because  I  wanted  to  think  it  over.  I 
am  afraid  you  cannot  have  Rupert  Savage  to  lunch 
to-day." 

"  My  dear  Charles,"  she  said,  surprised,  "  why  in 
the  world  not  ?  " 

Graeme  looked  down  at  the  floor,  his  mouth  firmly 
set. 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  303 

"  Simply  because  it  is  impossible  at  present,  while 
this  horrible  scandal  is  in  the  air,  that  you  should 
identify  yourself  with  any  one  connected  with  it.  I 
am  very  sorry;  I  know  how  it  will  hurt  you  to  ap- 
pear disloyal  to  your  friends,  but  I  have  to  think 
about  you  first.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  perfectly 
hateful  and  odious  this  business  is.  You  don't  know 
the  whole  of  it.  You  don't  know  what  people  are 
saying.  About  Savage,  of  course,  it  is  not  true,  but 
it  is  true  about  the  other  man.  It  is  painful  for  me 
even  to  talk  to  you  about  it.  I  wish  you  not  to  see 
anything  of  Rupert  Savage  until  it  has  settled  itself 
in  some  way." 

"  But  this  is  nonsense.  If  there  is  any  trouble, 
if  people  are  going  to  be  unjust  and  say  nasty  things 
about  Rupert,  that  is  the  very  time  his  friends  must 
stand  by  him.  I  could  no  more  write  telling  him 
not  to  come  than  I  could  believe  any  wild  nonsense 
people  like  to  say  about  him." 

"  Then  I  must  write,  if  you  won't,"  said  Graeme 
firmly ;  "  perhaps  it  would  be  better.  I  do  not  care 
for  you  even  to  be  discussing  the  thing  with  him. 
It  is  the  one  kind  of  thing  which  one  cannot  allow 
a  woman  to  appear  to  be  even  faintly  involved  in." 

Celia  was  silent  for  a  minute,  thinking  rapidly. 
Not  for  years  had  her  husband  ever  assumed  that  he 
had  the  right  to  command  her  in  any  matter  con- 
nected with  her  friends;  but  she  was  not  thinking 
of  that.  She  knew  him  well  enough  to  realize  that 
having  once  taken  up  a  position  of  this  kind  and 
having  assumed  his  right  to  control  her  movements, 


304  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

he  would  not  recede  from  it.  As  they  sat  silent  in 
the  room  there  together  the  external  affection  and 
goodwill  that  held  them  together  as  good  friends  for 
so  many  years  seemed  to  vanish,  and  the  profound 
native  antagonism  of  their  natures  stood  in  its  place. 
She  felt  that  she  was  being  forced  into  a  position  in 
which  some  very  definite  action  would  be  required 
of  her;  she  had  felt  it  coming  for  some  time,  but 
now  it  had  been  precipitated,  and  the  moment  had 
arrived  before  she  was  ready  for  it. 

She  rebelled  against  being  hurried  or  bustled  into 
a  decision,  and  she  tried  to  gain  time  by  an  attempt 
to  alter  her  husband's  point  of  view  by  deprecating 
the  importance  which  he  attached  to  the  whole  inci- 
dent. But  it  was  of  no  use.  Graeme  had  made  up  his 
mind,  and  she  felt  that  he  would  never  alter  it.  She 
did  not  know  how  much  he  suspected  of  Rupert's 
attachment  to  her;  he  was  a  very  silent  man,  and 
even  secret  about  such  things ;  all  she  knew  was  that 
he  had  no  idea  that  a  deep  and  passionate  love  had 
been  awakened  in  her  soul,  and  she  remembered  how 
completely  he  had  misunderstood  her  on  that  strange 
occasion  when  she  had  been  prompted  to  tell  him 
of  it. 

She  had  felt  then  as  if  Fate  had  intervened  to 
prevent  her  making  a  decision,  and  she  had  the  same 
feeling  now.  Obviously  she  could  not  ask  Rupert 
to  her  husband's  house  if  he  forbade  it;  obviously 
also  it  was  entirely  against  her  nature  to  resort  to 
any  clandestine  method  of  seeing  him;  and  if  she 
saw  him  openly  she  knew  Graeme  well  enough  to 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  305 

understand  that  it  would  mean  an  absolute  break 
with  him.  And  she  did  not  feel  that  the  moment 
had  come  for  that,  either  for  her  sake  or  Rupert's. 
She  felt  that  if  by  yielding  to  his  persuasions  and 
running  away  with  him  she  involved  him  in  a  social 
scandal  as  well  as  in  this  other  trouble,  it  would 
probably  have  such  a  disastrous  effect  upon  his  career 
that  he  would  never  recover  from  it.  And  she  loved 
him  far  too  well  and  too  deeply  to  let  her  love  be 
a  curse  to  him. 

Often  in  these  last  weeks  she  had  felt  that  she 
would  give  anything  to  end  her  present  unreal  life 
and  begin  a  real  one  with  him;  she  was  so  weary 
of  not  being  herself;  so  weary  of  the  interminable 
masquerade  that  had  been  tolerable  enough  and  had 
seemed  as  well  worth  doing  as  anything  else,  before 
her  love  had  been  awakened.  The  whole  woman  in 
her,  body  and  soul,  longed  to  run  to  the  mate  who 
was  calling  to  her;  and  yet  she  had  held  back,  and 
for  his  sake.  The  reasons  why  she  should  hold  back 
were  still  there;  she  must  not,  no,  she  must  not  let 
any  other  circumstance  force  her  into  an  action 
which  she  did  not  do  freely  and  of  her  own  choice. 

Graeme  got  up  to  go.  "  You  quite  understand, 
Celia,  I  am  sure,  and  you  will  do  what  I  wish." 

Celia  rose  also  from  her  chair.  "  No,  I  cannot 
write  a  letter  like  that,  if  that  is  what  you  mean. 
I  disapprove  of  it  and  I  won't  do  it." 

"  Very  well  then,  I  will  do  it  for  you ;  it  will  be 
better.  The  whole  thing  will  blow  over,  I  dare  say ; 
but  until  it  does  I  cannot  have  you  involved  in  it," 


306  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

he  added  kindly,  and  stooping  down  to  put  his  hand 
on  hers. 

She  drew  it  away  quickly,  looking  at  him  with  a 
curious  detached  expression  in  her  eyes.  She  could 
see  that  he  was  offended  and  in  a  way  exasperated 
with  her;  but  he  only  showed  it  by  an  almost  im- 
perceptible shrug  of  the  shoulders,  and  left  the  room. 
He  went  to  his  study  and  wrote  a  rather  formal  and 
quite  definite  note  to  Rupert,  saying  that  he  was 
sure  he  would  not  misunderstand  him  when  he  said 
that  he  thought  it  would  be  better,  while  this  de- 
plorable business  lasted,  that  his  wife  should  not  be 
identified  in  any  way  with  people  connected  with 
it;  and  he  hoped  that  when  it  was  all  over  they 
would  see  Rupert  again  as  they  had  been  accustomed 
to  do.  And  then  he  departed  to  a  Directors'  Meet- 
ing with  a  rather  satisfactory  sense  of  having  done 
something  unpleasant  but  necessary,  and  of  having 
asserted  his  right  to  protect  Celia  from  her  indis- 
cretions. 

•  •••••  ••• 

Celia  sat  thinking  for  a  long  while  in  her  chair. 
The  one  thing  she  was  sure  of  was  her  absolute  and 
changeless  love  for  Rupert;  that  would  be  the  one 
thing  he  was  sure  of  also.  Therefore  he  could  not 
possibly  misunderstand  this  characteristic  action  of 
her  husband.  The  one  thing  above  all  others  she 
wished  to  preserve  was  her  power  of  being  of  use  to 
him,  and  the  one  thing  endangering  that  would  be 
an  open  disagreement  about  him.  A  remarkable 
candour  of  mind  made  it  impossible  for  her,  after 


WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS  307 

what  her  husband  had  said,  to  write  without  telling 
him;  to  tell  him  would  be  to  precipitate  a  situation 
that  she  wished,  for  Rupert's  sake,  to  postpone; 
therefore  she  would  not  write.  Rupert  would  under- 
stand; but  oh,  what  would  she  not  have  given  to 
have  been  able  to  run  to  him  then  and  there  and 
put  her  arms  round  him,  and  wrap  him  in  a  mantle 
of  love  that  would  protect  him  from  all  the  pain 
and  unpleasantness  that  was  threatening  him ! 

She  seemed  to  herself  to  be  living  in  a  dream; 
an  hour  ago  she  would  have  said  that  complete  pas- 
sivity on  her  part,  while  her  husband  was  showing 
the  conventional  white  feather  at  the  breath  of  scan- 
dal, and  making  her  seem  to  desert  her  friend  in 
danger,  would  have  seemed  impossible  to  her;  but 
the  inner  voice,  and  that  strange  fate  that  had  inter- 
vened once  before,  told  her  to  wait  and  choose  her 
own  time  and  not  be  deflected  by  accident  or  cir- 
cumstances. She  turned  to  a  volume  beside  her  in 
which  she  had  often  found,  when  it  was  to  be  found 
nowhere  else,  a  silent  encouragement  in  her  effort 
always  to  make  her  decisions  in  life  the  decisions  of 
deliberate  choice,  and  she  found  a  passage  that  had 
been  the  expression  of  her  whole  belief  since  first 
she  had  discovered  the  road  of  her  soul. 

"  The  thing  that  thou  actually  lovest,  choose  that, 
even  as  thou  art  minded ;  it  is  the  voice  of  thy  whole 
being  that  speaks  then.  Paint  that,  sing  it,  celebrate 
it,  work  towards  doing  it  and  possessing  it,  deaf 
towards  all  else.  It  is  rich  with  blessedness  for  thee ; 


308  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

every  feature  and  figure  of  it  emblematic  of  good  to 
thee;   it  is  thy  counterpart,  that." 

Work  towards  possessing  it  —  that  was  what  she 
had  to  do  for  Rupert,  and  he  for  her.  But  there 
was  so  much  work  still  to  do,  and  it  was  that  most 
weary  and  difficult  labour  of  the  soul  —  the  work  of 
waiting,  the  work  of  silence,  the  work  of  risking 
misjudgment,  the  work  of  suffering  and  even  in- 
flicting pain  in  order  that  a  greater  joy  might  be  ful- 
filled. She  took  up  Rupert's  photograph  and  looked 
long  at  the  well-modelled,  masterful  face;  and  her 
eyes  filled  with  unwonted  tears. 


XIII 

EUPERT  found  two  letters  waiting  for  him  the 
next  morning  —  one  in  the  unfamiliar  writing  of 
his  cousin  Helen  and  bearing  the  Malvern  post-mark. 
He  opened  it  first.  It  told  him  briefly  that  his  aunt, 
who  had  been  staying  there  for  a  cure,  had  been 
taken  dangerously  ill  the  day  before,  and  that,  al- 
though there  seemed  to  be  no  immediate  danger,  it 
was  thought  better  that  Rupert  should  come  to  her 
at  once,  in  case  of  any  sudden  development  of  her 
illness. 

In  the  midst  of  other  pre-occupations  this  news 
had  a  doubly  chilling  effect;  but  when  he  opened 
the  other  letter  the  writing,  which  he  recognized  as 
Graeme's,  went  dim  before  his  eyes.  For  a  moment 
he  was  completely  stupefied;  his  mind  was  more 
wrought  upon  than  he  knew  by  all  the  events  that 
had  been  crowding  upon  it;  and  this  formal  con- 
ventional message,  with  its  veiled  suggestion  that  he 
was  a  person  association  with  whom  might  bring 
trouble  even  upon  his  friends,  struck  him  with  a 
blow  like  that  of  a  leaden  bullet.  And  the  blow, 
although  it  did  not  come  from  Celia,  came  from  her 
direction. 

309 


310  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

It  was  a  few  minutes  before  he  could  clear  his 
thoughts  sufficiently  to  realize  that  something  tre- 
mendous must  have  happened  for  her  even  to  allow 
him  to  be  subjected  to  this  slight.  The  deadly  thing 
in  his  mind  was  that  she  had  allowed  some  one  else 
to  write  her  answer  for  her ;  the  significance  of  such 
an  action,  its  rudeness  even,  all  that  it  might  be 
intended  to  convey  under  ordinary  circumstances, 
struck  him  as  being  utterly  at  variance  with  what 
he  knew  of  Celia's  character  and  actions.  He  was 
thinking  entirely  of  himself ;  he  had  been  supported 
by  the  certainty  of  seeing  her  that  day,  counting 
upon  it,  leaning  upon  it  with  his  whole  heart  and 
soul,  and  now  it  was  struck  away  from  under  him 
by  an  utterly  inexplicable  action.  His  brain  was  in 
a  ferment.  He  walked  up  and  down  the  room  with 
his  heart  thumping  like  a  sledge-hammer,  trying 
to  understand,  trying  to  see.  He  could  not  see,  he 
could  not  understand;  it  was  all  quite  blurred  and 
dark.  .  .  . 

Mechanically  he  picked  up  one  of  the  two  papers 
that  had  been  put  on  his  table,  and  opening  it  saw 
that  there  was  another  long  article  about  the  "  Syr- 
ian Songs,"  and  also  that  the  columns  had  been 
opened  to  a  correspondence  on  the  subject.  He  read 
the  article  first;  it  was  the  kind  of  thing  he  was 
getting  accustomed  to ;  but  it  had  even  more  weight 
and  rancour  than  that  in  The  Messenger.  It  re- 
viewed the  past  work  of  Midwood  and  Rupert,  ma- 
king light  of  its  artistic  worth  and  tracing  through 
it  a  tendency  that  had  inevitably  led  to  decadence 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  31 1 

and  perversion.  This  tendency,  said  the  article, 
must  be  stopped  at  all  costs ;  and  its  stoppage  would 
be  purchased  cheaply  indeed  at  the  cost  of  a  few 
reputations  and  careers.  The  article  was  followed 
by  a  column  and  a  half  of  extremely  violent  and 
sometimes  hysterical  letters  from  various  good  souls 
who  were  moved  by  the  articles  in  the  papers;  and, 
understanding  that  morality  and  religion  and  social 
cleanness  were  being  subverted,  manfully  took  pen 
in  hand  on  a  theme  on  which  at  last  they  felt  they 
could  speak  with  knowledge,  and  added  to  the  gen- 
eral chorus  their  shrill  cries  of  indignation  and 
anger. 

There  was  no  weight  in  most  of  the  letters,  which 
represented  the  yelping  of  hounds  on  a  trail;  but 
to  see  one's  self  called  names,  and  not  nice  names, 
and  to  see  one's  self  abused  throughout  the  columns 
of  a  newspaper,  has  a  certain  effect.  For  Rupert  it 
was  merely  one  in  a  procession  of  calamities  that 
were  beginning  to  weigh  upon  him  with  a  sense  of 
irretrievable  disaster.  The  whole  world  was  slipping 
away  from  him. 

He  had  forgotten  the  news  about  his  aunt ;  as  he 
picked  up  his  cousin's  letter  again  he  remembered 
it  dimly  as  something  that  had  happened  a  long 
time  ago.  He  would  have  to  go  to  Malvern,  and 
that  was  the  only  thing  left  to  be  done.  That  meant 
leaving  London  and  Celia.  Celia!  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  the  thought  of  her  was  associated 
with  pain  and  torture.  At  one  moment  he  was  on 


312  WHEN  THE   TIDE    TURNS 

the  point  of  rushing  from  the  room  straight  to  her 
house,  insisting  on  seeing  her  and  hearing  from  her 
own  lips  that  she  loved  him,  trusted  him,  knew  him, 
stood  by  him;  next  he  threw  himself  into  his  chair 
with  his  head  sunk  on  his  hands  trying  to  stop  the 
whirling  in  his  brain  and  to  disentangle  some  clear 
thought  there.  Then  he  remembered  again  that  he 
must  go  to  Malvern;  and  he  looked  up  the  trains 
and  decided  to  go  early  in  the  afternoon. 

He  had  been  so  much  on  the  move  lately  that  most 
of  his  affairs  had  been  neglected.  He  had  to  go  out 
to  see  one  or  two  people  on  business,  and  to  attend 
to  some  of  the  dull  mechanical  details  of  existence. 
He  walked  up  St.  James's  Street  and  along  Picca- 
dilly with  the  thought  of  Celia  throbbing  in  his  head. 
The  temptation  to  go  to  Curzon  Street  was  almost 
irresistible,  but  the  cold  barrier  of  that  note  was  im- 
passable. Then  he  thought  he  might  perhaps  meet 
Celia.  The  idea  that  she  might  be  out  and  near  him, 
and  that  he  by  some  lack  of  vigilance  might  miss  her, 
sent  him  into  Bond  Street  and  Regent  Street,  to  the 
quarter  in  which  women  are  supposed  to  be  when 
they  are  shopping;  and  he  saw  many  beautiful 
women  going  in  and  out  of  shops,  and  had  several 
sudden  flutterings  of  the  heart  when  he  saw  what 
looked  like  a  familiar  carriage  and  coachman;  but 
he  saw  no  Celia. 

He  saw  one  or  two  other  people,  however,  whom 
he  knew,  and  thought  that  they  were  a  little  dull 
sometimes  in  not  seeing  him.  Then  with  a  bitter 
smile  he  realized  that  recognition  of  him  was  being 


W HEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS  313 

actually  avoided.  He  was  beginning  to  understand 
that  fame  is  a  two-edged  weapon,  which  remains  in 
the  ownership  of  the  world  that  granted  its  use  and 
can  take  it  back  again.  If  it  had  given  Rupert  a 
sense  of  power  over  the  world,  he  realized  now  that 
it  was  giving  the  world  power  over  him. 

He  was  inclined  to  laugh  when  he  was  deliberately 
cut  in  St.  James's  Street  by  a  man  at  whose  house 
he  had  dined  and  whose  daughters  he  had  danced 
with  through  the  last  season.  But  when  he  went  to 
his  club,  which  he  did  with  the  deliberate  intention 
of  testing  the  extent  of  this  feeling,  he  found  it  dif- 
ficult to  laugh  any  more.  There  wras  an  air  of  cold- 
ness and  aloofness  there  which  was  far  more  de- 
pressing than  deliberate  insult.  He  saw  the  sidelong 
glances  directed  at  him  from  behind  newspapers,  but 
the  eyes  did  not  meet  his  with  the  usual  readiness; 
there  was  a  fidgety  air  in  the  smoking-room  while 
he  was  in  it ;  the  men  he  spoke  to  seemed  guilty  and 
embarrassed,  and  one  or  two  were  rather  too  polite. 
He  soon  had  enough  of  the  Club.  He  had  learned 
what  he  wanted  to  know  there. 

He  was  more  stung  and  humiliated  than  he  cared 
to  admit;  he  began  to  see  and  to  know  that  justice 
has  not  necessarily  any  part  in  the  world's  punish- 
ments, to  realize  what  a  very  small  matter  it  made 
whether  a  man  was  innocent  or  guilty  in  the  eyes  of 
those  who  condemned  him,  and  to  feel  that  in  that 
silent,  threatening  attitude  of  the  public  there  was 
weight  as  well  as  bitterness. 


314  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

He  reached  Malvern  that  evening,  and  found  that 
his  aunt  was  not  expected  to  live  more  than  a  day 
or  two  at  the  most.  In  his  present  condition  he  was 
hardly  capable  of  feeling  any  more  grief;  in  fact, 
he  was  almost  ashamed  when  he  realized  how  little 
he  felt  as  he  sat  by  the  bedside  and  watched  the  frail 
old  life  beating  itself  away. 

It  was  a  mere  ghost  of  himself  that  sat  there. 
In  imagination  his  real  self  was  far  away,  wander- 
ing in  some  voiceless  darkness  in  search  of  his  hid- 
den love;  he  was  like  a  blind,  lost  soul  searching 
through  the  endless  night  of  doubt  and  separation 
for  its  mate.  The  last  few  hours  in  London,  more- 
over, had  given  a  tinge  of  bitterness  to  his  depres- 
sion ;  and  in  that  moment  of  distress  and  weakness, 
suspicion  —  the  foul  bird  that  comes  to  prey  upon 
a  weakening  faith  —  entered  his  heart.  His  cer- 
tainty of  Celia's  love  for  him  began  to  waver ;  since 
his  reason  could  furnish  him  with  no  explanation  of 
her  silence,  and  his  wounded  pride  was  too  sensitive 
to  ask  for  it,  he  began  to  sink  back  into  the  mire  of 
mistrust.  It  was  impossible  that  she  could  be  like 
the  rest  of  the  world,  but  the  fact  was  that  she  had 
failed  him,  and  that  nothing  could  explain  or  alter 
or  make  up  for  that. 

The  next  morning  his  aunt  was  no  better,  but  not 
much  worse.  The  doctor  thought  it  likely  that  she 
might  live,  at  the  outside,  for  three  or  four  days; 
but  in  her  semi-conscious  state  there  were  intervals 
in  which  she  seemed  to  recognize  Rupert  and  to  like 
to  hold  his  hand  as  he  sat  by  her  bedside.  It  was 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  315 

all  he  could  do  for  her;  it  was  such  a  little  return 
for  all  the  love  and  care  she  had  lavished  upon  him, 
and  he  felt  that  he  must  stay  with  her  until  the  end. 
The  devoted  cousin  Helen,  a  lady  of  rather  negative 
character,  much  immersed  in  the  affairs  of  her  own 
home,  from  which  she  had  been  so  long  absent,  had 
been  Miss  Savage's  only  companion  for  some 
months;  she  was  practically  her  only  other  living 
relation,  and  Rupert  could  not  leave  his  post.  But 
it  was  an  added  torture  to  sit  there  for  hours  at  a 
time  in  the  dark  room,  waiting  for  an  end  that  came 
so  slowly  and  gradually  that  the  downward  prog- 
ress was  almost  imperceptible. 

He  remembered  how  on  that  winter  evening  years 
ago  he  had  sat  with  her  so  impatiently  waiting  for 
her  to  go  to  bed,  in  order  that  he  might  set  out  on 
the  glowing  road  of  life  that  was  calling  him.  And 
here  he  was,  apparently  at  another  turning-point  in 
his  life,  again  waiting  for  the  poor  old  lady  to  retire 
into  that  long  night  from  which  there  is  no  waking. 
But  he  was  not  impatient  this  time ;  he  would  have 
kept  her  if  he  could,  for  he  was  beginning  to  feel 
that  his  world  was  crumbling  away,  and  that  he 
was  friendless  and  alone.  But  in  another  way  he 
was  glad  that  she  had  been  spared  any  knowledge 
of  the  catastrophe,  which,  although  she  would  never 
have  doubted  him,  would  have  caused  her  the  deep- 
est grief  and  shame  on  his  account. 

In  the  meantime  the  papers  came  to  him  and  he 
was  able,  like  a  spectator  a  long  way  off,  to  watch 
the  growing  storm  in  which  his  name  had  become 


316  WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS 

involved.  The  Messenger,  true  to  its  promise,  came 
out  with  a  long,  brilliantly-written  indictment  of 
the  whole  of  the  modern  movement  in  art  —  an  in- 
dictment based  on  moral  more  than  artistic  grounds. 
Rupert  had  heard  in  town  some  unpleasant  story 
about  a  son  of  the  editor  who  had  been  an  intimate 
friend  of  Midwood's  and  had  come  to  utter  moral 
grief ;  and  there  was  a  certain  nobility  in  the  hatred 
and  indignation  with  which  every  line  of  the  article 
was  inspired.  But  again  there  was  no  discrimina- 
tion. Although  the  rancour  was  all  inspired  by 
Midwood,  it  was  directed  equally  against  Rupert  and 
the  others ;  the  article  was  a  flaming  accusation  that 
rang  like  a  bugle  call  through  the  newspaper  world 
of  England ;  and  all  the  smaller  hounds  were  in  full 
cry.  The  correspondence  columns  were  filled  with 
moral  protests;  it  turned  out  that  Midwood's  moral 
twist  had  after  all  not  been  expressed  in  his  writing 
alone,  but  that  it  had  brought  his  private  life  within 
reach  of  the  law.  It  was  eagerly  demanded  that  he 
should  be  prosecuted  and  made  an  example  of;  but 
he  had  evidently  received  a  hint  in  time  and  had 
fled  the  country,  no  one  knew  whither. 

And  on  the  following  Sunday  the  Bishop  of  Pen- 
zance,  preaching  in  Westminster  Abbey,  solemnly 
warned  England  against  the  tendencies  of  modern 
art,  denounced  the  "  Syrian  Songs  "  as  an  example 
of  it  that  must  be  revolting  to  every  Christian  man 
and  woman,  and  demanded  that  those  who  thus  de- 
filed the  temple  of  art  should  be  scourged  from  its 
precincts. 


W HEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS  317 

The  last  insult  of  all  came  in  the  shape  of  the 
current  number  of  The  Riddle,  which  reached  Ru- 
pert a  few  hours  before  his  aunt  died.  The  front 
page  was  to  have  contained  a  drawing  by  him 
—  a  very  simple  but  exquisite  little  study  called 
"  Spring,"  of  a  child  sitting  in  a  meadow  starred 
with  flowers.  But  when  he  opened  The  Riddle,  in- 
stead of  this  innocent  composition,  which  might  have 
done  something  to  remind  people  of  the  wrongness 
and  injustice  of  their  denunciation  of  him,  Rupert 
saw  a  blank  page  with  a  small  line  of  print  in  the 
middle  of  it:  "A  line  drawing  by  Mr.  Rupert  Sav- 
age had  been  prepared  for  this  page,  but  in  view  of 
recent  events  the  publishers  decided  to  withdraw  it, 
although  they  were  unable  at  such  short  notice  to 
procure  a  suitable  drawing  from  another  artist." 

So  that  was  Steinman's  point  of  view;  he  had 
deserted  like  the  others.  He  had  thought  to  pre- 
serve the  existence  of  his  paper  by  offering  up  one 
of  his  men  as  a  sacrifice,  and  he  had  chosen  Rupert ; 
and  that  blank  page,  suggesting  unutterable  things 
of  him  in  the  paper  which  his  own  genius  had  prac- 
tically created,  was  in  some  ways  the  deepest  insult 
of  all. 

But  he  had  to  turn  from  considering  these  things 
to  take  his  aunt's  hand  in  his  for  the  last  time,  for 
the  last  time  to  lay  his  lips  on  her  forehead,  and  to 
see  her  die. 


XIV 

THE  Irish  night-mail  swung  through  the  Potter- 
ies and  sped  over  the  flats  of  Cheshire,  and  the  peo- 
ple in  its  long  line  of  coaches  dozed  or  waked,  or 
rested  or  were  wearied,  according  to  the  state  of  their 
nerves.  Rupert  Savage,  in  a  compartment  by  him- 
self, slept  fitfully.  The  steady  rushing  of  the  train 
along  the  low  Flintshire  coast  lulled  him  for  a  time 
into  a  grateful  oblivion;  then  the  deafening  roar 
and  clatter  over  Conway  Bridge  waked  him  sud- 
denly, and  it  was  perhaps  a  second  or  two  before  the 
upholstered  arms  of  the  cushions,  the  trembling 
shaded  lamp,  and  the  reflection  of  his  own  startled, 
haggard  face  in  the  black  window  brought  him  back 
to  consciousness  of  the  train  and  what  it  meant  at 
that  moment. 

Hicks,  his  servant,  came  in  from  the  corridor  to 
see  if  he  wanted  anything,  and  to  tell  him  that  they 
would  be  at  Holyhead  in  about  half-an-hour,  and, 
having  arranged  a  rug,  went  out  again.  And  Ru- 
pert settled  himself  back  into  the  corner  of  his  car- 
riage, thinking  wearily. 

He  deliberately  diverted  his  thoughts  from  Celia 
and  occupied  them  with  the  strange  unwonted  er- 

318 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  319 

rand  that  he  was  now  upon.  The  incidents  of  the 
past  few  days  passed  rapidly  before  his  mind  —  the 
summons  to  Malvern,  the  long  waiting  by  the  bed- 
side, the  double  life  of  attendance  upon  a  sick  old 
woman,  and  endurance  of  the  inner  storms  and 
conflicts  of  the  lover  and  the  artist;  the  paralyzing 
effect  upon  him  of  Celia's  silence  and  apparent 
failure;  the  tremendous  tide  of  public  fury  and  in- 
dignation that  had  been  set  flowing  against  him; 
the  death  and  quiet  passage  of  his  aunt  from  out  all 
things  transitory  and  sublunary;  the  writings,  tele- 
grams, petty  arrangements  (his  cousin  having  been 
summoned  to  her  own  home  by  illness  there)  ;  deal- 
ings with  strange  black-coated  beings  who  seemed 
suddenly  to  have  invaded  his  life;  his  brief  return 
to  London  and  wounded  avoidance  of  all  acquaint- 
ances; hurry,  worry,  occupation  with  endless  de- 
tail —  and  now  this  flying  midnight  journey  across 
England  towards  the  land  and  place  of  his  birth. 
For  somewhere  in  the  long,  hurrying  train  there  was 
an  unlighted  coach  with  one  silent  occupant,  who 
slept  unbrokenly  through  stoppages  and  shuntings, 
over  rivers  and  through  cuttings  and  tunnels  —  his 
aunt,  who  had  so  often  complained  of  the  journey 
between  England  and  Ireland,  now  hurried  uncom- 
plainingly on  her  last  home-coming. 

Beside  the  constant  misery  that  ached  in  his 
heart  there  was  another  sense  as  of  one  taking  part 
in  a  drama.  He  had  been  amazed  at  how  little  he 
was  able  to  feel  concerning  the  illness  and  death  of 


320  WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS 

his  aunt;  and  even  now  he  realized  his  utter  de- 
tachment from  the  old  woman  whose  corpse  rested 
in  the  van.  She  had  latterly  been  very  little  to  him. 
She  had  taken  no  part  —  could  have  taken  no  part 
—  in  the  splendour  of  his  fame  and  achievement. 
With  the  self-absorption  and  unconsciousness  of  all 
growing  things  he  had  been  moving  away  from  the 
supports  of  his  early  youth;  and  a  very  small  por- 
tion of  his  life  and  thoughts  had  been  given  latterly 
to  his  aunt.  He  felt  very  far  away  from  her  and 
her  concerns;  very  far  even  from  this  last  concern 
of  hers;  it  was  all  like  a  dream,  or  a  play  in 
which  he  had  to  act  a  part.  And  as  the  lights  of 
Holyhead  appeared,  and  the  train  drew  up  by  the 
harbour,  and  the  strong  smell  of  the  sea  greeted  his 
nostrils,  it  was  with  a  sense  not  of  actuality  but  of 
remote  fantasy  that  he  got  down  on  to  the  wooden 
platform  and  prepared  to  go  across  to  the  steamer. 

His  sense  of  drama  was  greatly  assisted  by  the 
appearance  at  the  carriage  door  of  Mr.  Clod,  the 
master  of  those  dismal  ceremonies  with  which  we 
honour  our  dead.  This  creature  had  so  interwoven 
himself  into  Rupert's  life  during  the  past  few  days 
that,  amid  all  this  tragedy,  he  had  come  to  have  an 
almost  comic  sense  of  reliance  on  him.  The  under- 
taker was  a  bulky  man,  dressed  by  an  admirable 
tailor,  whose  massive  head  and  weathered  face  sug- 
gested a  blend  of  ambassador  and  sea  captain.  Dis- 
cretion and  diplomacy  were  the  gifts  which  had 
brought  him  to  eminence  in  his  profession;  he  was 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  321 

a  past-master  in  the  art  of  enveloping  his  clients  in 
a  vast  and  intricate  ritual,  and  then  cutting  a  way 
out  for  them  with  one  sweep  of  his  powerful  and 
diplomatic  arm;  just  as,  when  he  made  up  his  fan- 
tastic bills,  he  was  accustomed  to  add  fifty  per  cent, 
to  the  amount,  and  then,  when  the  long-suffering 
executor  came  to  protest,  to  say,  with  a  confidential 
air :  "  Just  leave  this  to  me,  will  you  ?  It  seems  a 
great  deal  —  I  do  not  think  you  ought  to  pay  so 
much  —  I  will  see  that  they  strike  off  thirty  per 
cent,  at  least."  He  loved  his  profession;  he  was 
like  a  Chamberlain  at  a  Court  whose  sovereign  was 
the  Body,  the  crown  prince  and  heir  apparent  the 
chief  mourner,  and  the  minor  royalties  the  relatives 
and  friends;  while  his  own  highly-trained  staff 
were  household  and  bodyguard  in  one. 

As  Eupert  emerged  from  the  carriage  he  found 
Mr.  Clod  standing  bareheaded  by  the  door.  It  was 
one  of  the  undertaker's  rules  always  to  uncover  in 
the  presence  of  mourners  —  his  royal  family ;  also 
always  to  assume  that  they  were  suffering  from  an 
agonizing  and  prostrating  grief  —  which  quite  often 
they  were  not.  He  now  stepped  forward,  and  ad- 
dressed Rupert  in  tones  of  deep  sympathy. 

"  All  ready,  Mr.  Savage.  I've  had  a  bit  of  the 
platform  railed  off,  so  as  to  have  no  crowding." 
For  some  reason  the  Greenore  steamer  was  late  in 
leaving  that  night ;  and  in  any  case  the  small  hours 
of  the  morning  on  the  Holyhead  platform  are  not 
productive  of  great  crowds,  and  the  passengers  had 
already  gone  across  to  the  steamer;  but  it  was  one 


322  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

of  Clod's  beliefs  that  the  world  consisted  of  an  un- 
ruly crowd  trying  to  get  a  sight  of  the  Body.  "  If 
you'll  follow  me,  Mr.  Savage,  I'll  see  that  you're 
not  annoyed.  When  you're  ready,  sir.  This  way." 
Mr.  Clod  moved  in  front  of  Hugh  across  the 
empty  platform  as  though  he  were  insinuating  him- 
self to  clear  a  path  through  a  dense  throng.  Still 
keeping  Rupert  behind  him,  he  hurried  to  the  closed 
van,  where  a  line  of  his  menials  was  drawn  up.  In 
obedience  to  a  succession  of  brisk  muscular  move- 
ments on  the  part  of  Clod  —  dumb  words  of  com- 
mand—  they  opened  the  door  of  the  van,  drew  out 
the  coffin,  shouldered  it,  and  (still  taking  the  time 
from  Clod)  marched  across  to  the  steamer.  Hugh, 
with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  Hicks  behind  him,  and 
strange,  confused  thoughts  in  his  mind,  followed 
across  the  planks,  up  the  gangway  of  the  steamer, 
where  the  officers  were  standing  bareheaded.  A  few 
more  shufflings  and  staggerings  and  whispered  or- 
ders, and  the  ropes  were  cast  off,  and  the  steamer 
was  threading  her  way  through  the  maze  of  lighted 
buoys  towards  the  South  Stack. 


It  was  a  quiet  May  night,  and  there  were  few 
passengers;  the  fresh  sea  air  had  chased  away  Ru- 
pert's sleepiness;  and  he  watched  the  darkness  of 
the  night  sky  changing  to  a  mysterious  blue  gloom, 
in  which  the  lighted  buoys  of  the  channel  and  the 
arc  lamps  behind  hung  like  stars  of  silver  and  gold, 
and  the  quick  upward  flash  of  the  lighthouse  looked 


WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS  323 

like  arms  thrown  up  to  the  sky  in  a  dumb  appeal 
for  help  as  the  radiance  of  the  light  was  quenched 
in  the  growing  dawn. 

Rupert  walked  up  and  down  the  almost  empty 
deck,  watching  the  world  of  bright  pin-point  lights 
receding  in  the  distance.  The  novelty  of  his  situa- 
tion and  the  queer,  unreal  solemnity  of  his  errand 
set  thought  and  memory  working  in  his  mind.  At 
one  end  of  his  short  walk  there  was  a  roped-off  space, 
containing  a  rectangular  object  covered  with  tar- 
paulins ;  at  the  other,  two  glowing  cigar-ends  under 
the  lee  of  a  deck-house  showed  where  Mr.  Clod  had 
for  the  moment  put  off  his  greatness,  and  was  con- 
descending to  converse  with  Hicks.  For  the  expan- 
sive, good-natured  creature  must  have  some  one  to 
be  agreeable  to  —  if  not  a  mourner  or  a  relative, 
then  a  mourner's  servant;  and  in  such  moments  as 
these  —  the  human  part  of  him  seeking  utterance  — 
the  pomp  of  the  man  was  put  aside.  As  Rupert 
turned  in  his  walk  fragments  of  their  conversation 
—  the  strange,  unfamiliar  talk  of  servants  at  their 
ease  —  broke  on  his  hearing ;  at  the  other  end  it  was 
inaudible,  and  there  were  only  the  surges  and  the 
beat  of  the  engines  to  be  heard. 

He  would  have  said  that  he  was  thinking;  but 
thought  is  an  active  matter,  and  his  mind  was  pas- 
sive, filled  with  floating  pictures  and  sensations. 
His  aunt  —  he  could  not,  think  as  he  might,  identify 
her  in  any  way  with  the  admirable  piece  of  cabinet- 
making  under  the  tarpaulin.  That  seemed  to  belong 
much  more  to  Clod  than  to  him.  She  was  away 


324  WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS 

somewhere  in  the  dim  past  —  in  the  house  by  the 
shore  at  Rathshene,  now  in  a  dark,  cool  pantry,  odor- 
ous to  his  childish  nostrils  of  Arabian  spices,  now 
in  the  hot  walled  garden,  where  the  noise  of  the 
rooks  in  the  demesne  hard  by  drowned  the  roar  of 
the  tide. 

"...  at  Plymouth,  when  I  was  an  apprentice  " 
(it  was  the  voice  of  Clod),  "  I  remember  one  case 
—  a  very  stout  gentleman  he  was,  too  —  a  byword 
for  stoutness.  Very  hot  weather  we  had  that  sum- 
mer, too,  and  there  was  no  time  to  get  a  lead  shell 
nor  even  a  zinc  tray.  I  had  to  act  on  the  spot. 
What  did  I  do?  Why,  packed  the  corpse  round 
with  sawdust ;  and  even  then  —  " 

The  voice  faded,  but  it  had  broken  the  spell.  The 
scroll  of  pictures  in  his  mind  had  been  changed.  It 
was  London  now,  and  the  long  grey  walls  of  his 
room;  all  the  toil  and  labour  that  had  gone  to  the 
making  of  himself  there;  the  success,  the  apprecia- 
tion, the  praise,  the  feasting,  the  brilliant,  restless, 
feverish  atmosphere  of  his  world,  of  whose  trinity 
the  three  persons  were  Art,  Beauty  and  Wit.  .  .  . 
Celia's  room;  Celia's  grave,  calm  face,  lovely  and 
tender  in  its  pure  modelling,  and  the  violet,  gem- 
like  shining  of  her  eyes  —  afy !  there  was  pain  in 
that  memory,  and  he  turned  away  from  it  too. 

The  salt  air  blew  cold  upon  him,  and  he  decided 
to  go  to  his  cabin  and  get  an  hour  or  two's  sleep 
in  preparation  of  the  long  day  before  him.  He 
stood  for  a  moment  looking  over  the  surging  waters 
grown  greyer  and  bluer  in  the  paling  gloom  of  dawn. 


WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS  325 

There  was  a  dawn  of  something  in  his  heart  - —  a 
chill  and  lonely  dawn. 


He  was  awakened  by  Hicks,  who  drew  the  curtain 
and  let  daylight  stream  into  his  state-room.  "  We've 
been  in  nearly  an  hour,  sir,  and  Mr.  Clod  says  we 
ought  to  start  in  half-an-hour." 

"  All  right,  Hicks ;  have  my  breakfast  ready  in 
twenty  minutes." 

When  he  came  on  deck  Greenore  Harbour  was 
bright  with  morning  sunshine;  but  the  foreground 
of  the  view  was  darkened  by  Mr.  Clod,  who  stood 
in  his  graveside  attitude,  with  hunched  shoulders, 
brooding  like  a  plump  raven  over  the  packing-case 
that  had  been  swung  on  to  the  pier.  The  horses  and 
conveyances  had  been  sent  from  Belfast  —  a  hearse 
and  two  carriages,  with  an  attendant  vehicle,  like  a 
holiday  wagonette  disguised  in  black  paint,  destined 
to  conceal  the  wayside  cheerfulness  of  the  mutes. 
As  Rupert  came  down  the  gangway  the  undertaker 
turned  to  him  with  sympathetic  inquiries  after  his 
short  sleep. 

"  Over  thirty  miles,  I  think  you  said,  sir  ?  "  he 
asked  in  a  melancholy  voice.  "  Time  we  were  ma- 
king a  start."  The  man  looked  wretchedly  ill.  Set 
off  by  the  rich  hanging  folds  of  his  black  garments 
and  faultless  linen,  the  mottled  red  of  his  face  looked 
unwholesome  —  though  really  it  was  wholesome 
enough,  being  but  weathered  by  the  winds  on  many 
bleak  cemetery  slopes.  His  pale  eyes,  half  closed 


326  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

between  swollen  lids,  looked  suffused  as  though  with 
weeping;  though  they  too  were  well  enough,  pale 
like  a  seaman's  from  looking  into  gales,  and  a  little 
watery  from  the  effect  of  cordials  taken  to  keep  out 
the  graveside  damp.  A  touch  of  sleeplessness,  as  in 
the  present  case,  had  an  admirable  effect;  and  on 
the  vigil  of  a  very  important  funeral  Mr.  Clod  made 
it  a  habit  not  to  go  to  bed  until  very  late.  He  looked 
so  ill  that  Rupert  noticed  it. 

"  Is  anything  the  matter,  Mr.  Clod  ? "  he  asked 
kindly.  "  You  don't  look  well." 

An  expression  of  frank  astonishment  for  a  mo- 
ment enlivened  the  lugubrious  features.  "  Me  ill, 
sir !  "  he  gasped.  Obviously  the  idea  had  never  oc- 
curred to  him;  but  he  quickly  suppressed  his  un- 
seemly surprise. 

"  Oh,  don't  trouble  about  me,  I  beg,  sir.  It's  you 
we  must  think  of;  you  have  a  trying  day  before 
you,  Mr.  Savage,  and  I  do  hope  that  strength  will 
be  given  you  to  bear  up.  Excuse  my  mentioning  it, 
sir,  but  being  so  much  with  you  the  last  few  days, 
and  travelling  like  this  together,  has  made  me  feel 
almost  like  one  of  your  household.  I  assure  you, 
sir,  I  feel  the  loss,  in  my  humble  way,  as  a  personal 
one."  And  a  genuine  tear  hovered  on  Clod's  pale 
eye,  and  had  rolled  halfway  down  Clod's  mottled 
cheek  before  it  was  caught  and  absorbed  in  Clod's 
large  handkerchief. 

Rupert  gazed  in  astonishment  at  the  picture  of  a 
man  crying  for  the  loss  of  some  one  he  had  never 
seen  alive;  and  then  a  sense  of  the  huge,  balloon- 


WHEN  THE  TIDE  TURNS  327 

like  plausibility  and  self-deception  of  the  creature 
came  to  him  so  suddenly  that  he  could  hardly  help 
laughing  in  Clod's  dismal  face.  The  man  was  ac- 
tually sincere ;  he  had  so  prepared  his  emotions  that 
he  could  sow  the  seeds  and  reap  the  harvest  of  grief 
in  a  single  night. 

"  All  right,  thank  you,  I'll  manage,"  he  replied. 
"  I  think  I'll  have  the  carriage  open ;  there's  no 
need  to  be  covered  up  all  the  way.  And  let  them 
drive  at  a  good  pace,  please,  Mr.  Clod,  or  we  shall 
never  get  there.  Of  course,  you  can  go  slowly 
through  the  villages." 

Clod  received  these  secular  instructions  with  a 
grieved,  sympathetic  air,  as  one  might  listen  to  the 
extravagant  requests  of  a  person  whose  mind  was 
unhinged  by  sorrow.  "  Everything  shall  be  done  as 
you  wish,  Mr.  Savage.  I  think  we  are  ready  now." 

With  these  words  he  ceased  to  be  the  sympathetic 
body-servant  and  became  the  general  again.  "  I 
think  we  are  ready  now  — "  the  words  were  the 
motif  of  his  life,  spoken  while  he  peeped  out  of 
darkened  bedrooms,  or  tiptoed  into  drawing-rooms, 
or  hovered  in  the  porches  of  churches,  or  hastily  con- 
cealed the  screw-driver  in  his  capacious  pocket.  He 
now  hurried  off  to  his  bodyguard,  who  lifted  the  cof- 
fin out  of  its  case  and  raised  it  on  their  shoulders. 
Hat  in  hand,  he  waved  off  the  few  harbour  loiterers 
and  walked  slowly  round  the  coffin,  apparently  en- 
gaged in  prayer,  but  really  uttering  a  series  of  sharp 
exhortations  in  a  savage  undertone. 

"  Now,    Johnson,    shoulders !      Evans,    straighten 


328  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

out  there  —  your  corner's  down.  Where's  your  col- 
lar, Ryles  ?  Left  it  in  the  train  ?  You'll  leave  your 
trousers  in  the  train  next.  That's  a  fine,  anyway. 
Now  then!  one,  two."  And  the  little  procession 
moved  to  the  hearse.  Rupert  seated  himself  in  the 
open  carriage,  Clod  and  Hicks  took  possession  of 
the  next,  the  black  brigade  mounted  into  their  wag- 
onette, and  the  cavalcade  passed  out  through  the 
town  of  Greenore  into  the  open  country  beyond. 

The  air  was  sweet  and  fragrant;  the  smell  of 
green  Ireland  on  that  early  May  morning  came  fa- 
miliarly to  Rupert's  sense,  as,  having  substituted  a 
travelling  cap  for  his  hat,  he  leaned  back  on  the 
cushions  and  watched  the  fair  country  unrolling 
before  him.  The  hedgerows,  in  their  first  glory  of 
colour  and  perfume,  reminded  him  of  those  wonder- 
ful variations  in  the  symphony  of  green  that  only 
Irish  hedgerows  can  invent;  he  began  to  feel  that 
he  was  on  his  native  soil  and  wondered  that  he  had 
so  long  been  an  exile  from  it.  The  whole  circum- 
stances of  the  moment  were  so  unusual  and  so  un- 
real that  they  imposed  themselves  upon  his  attention 
and  relieved  the  dull  monotony  of  misery  in  his 
thoughts.  How  odd  it  was  that  he  should  be  driving 
along  an  Irish  road  on  an  early  May  morning,  alone 
with  a  valet  and  an  undertaker !  There  was  no  one 
else  to  come.  The  few  people  who,  in  the  light  of 
recent  events,  he  could  still  regard  as  his  firm  friends 
—  people  like  Caird,  Sibley,  or  Lady  Waynefleete, 
would  have  been  oddly  out  of  place  in  this  scene  and 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  329 

would  only  have  marked  the  wideness  of  the  differ- 
ence that  lay  between  his  world  in  London  and  this 
old  world  of  childhood.  They  would  have  been  un- 
comfortable ;  they  would  hardly  have  understood  his 
own  feeling  about  it  or  about  his  aunt's  death,  half 
an  indifference,  half  a  shy,  unreasonable  sensitive- 
ness. Nor  would  the  Rathshene  people  have  under- 
stood his  friends  or  their  attitude  towards  him.  In 
Rathshene  he  very  well  knew  he  would  only  be 
"  Master  Rupert,"  his  father's  son,  his  aunt's  nephew. 
People's  minds  there  dwelt  in  the  past,  and  they 
probably  realized  not  at  all,  and  would  have  cared 
very  little  if  they  had  realized  the  unique  position 
that  "  Master  Rupert "  had  come  to  hold  in  the 
large  world.  It  was  probable  that  they  had  never 
heard  of  The  Riddle;  he  hoped  they  never  had. 

The  morning  air,  after  its  first  stimulating  effect 
wore  off,  made  him  drowsy,  and  he  sat  back  with 
closed  eyes  wrapped  in  a  half -conscious  trance,  lulled 
by  the  beating  of  the  horses'  feet  and  the  scrape  and 
rumble  of  the  wheels  on  the  hard  road.  For  the 
moment  he  was  emotionally  worn  out  and  incapable 
of  much  feeling,  but  he  had  a  premonition  that  he 
was  drawing  steadily  nearer  to  some  emotional  sensa- 
tion which  as  yet  did  not  touch  him.  He  was  con- 
tent to  await  it;  and  the  long  miles  through  the 
green  growing  country  seemed  short  to  him  in  the 
deepening  expectation  of  revisiting  the  place  of  his 
birth. 

The  gentle,  monotonous  rolling  of  the  carriage 
bore  him  on  as  in  a  dream.  It  was  in  a  dream  that, 


330  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

as  the  horses  dropped  to  a  walking  pace  on  the  out- 
skirts of  Newry,  he  sat  up  and  took  his  passive  part 
in  the  slow  progress  through  the  town,  watching  the 
eager  interest  of  little  barefoot  children,  and  the 
respectful  uncovering  of  people's  heads.  It  was  in 
a  dream  that  he  noticed  the  cessation  of  the  rum- 
bling wheel-lullaby  when  they  stopped  here  and  there 
at  a  roadside  inn  to  water  the  horses  and,  presum- 
ably, to  beer  the  Black  Brigade;  that  he  smelt  the 
drifting  odour  of  peat,  heard  low  voices  talking  in 
the  familiar  accent,  and  submitted  to  the  sympa- 
thetic attentions  of  Clod  and  Dickson.  At  Dun- 
drum,  where  they  changed  the  carriage-horses  (the 
four  horses  drawing  the  hearse  had  a  light  burden), 
he  got  down  to  avoid  the  stolid  and  absorbed  scrutiny 
of  a  squalid  little  crowd,  and  wandered  through  the 
once  familiar  streets.  How  small  and  mean  they 
seemed  to  have  grown!  There  was  Mulligan's  job- 
yard,  where  his  father  had  always  put  up  his  horses ; 
there  was  Quinn's  public-house,  the  resort,  in  Prot- 
estant eyes,  of  disreputable  Catholics,  with  the  first 
"  n  "  of  the  white  raised  letters  still  missing  from 
the  background  of  Reckitt's  blue ;  and  there  —  yes, 
there  was  "wee  M'Guire,"  the  bearded,  hunch- 
backed, crippled  dwarf,  who  had  been  the  terror  of 
his  childhood,  looking  not  much  older,  and  raking,  as 
of  yore,  with  his  crutch  in  the  gutter. 

As  he  returned  to  his  carriage  Mr.  Clod,  in  whom 
a  spirit  of  holiday  travel  was  struggling  hard  with 
professional  gloom,  ventured  a  few  words.  "  Beau- 
tiful morning  we're  having,  Mr.  Savage;  and  a 


WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS  331 

beautiful  country !  This  is  my  first  visit  to  Ireland ; 
it's  almost  like  an  out  —  "  He  pulled  himself  up. 
"  The  departed  lady  herself,  sir,  couldn't  have 
wished  for  more  lovely  weather.  There  seems  to 
be  a  deal  of  poverty  and  misery  in  the  country,  sir." 

"  Why,  this  is  some  of  the  best  land  in  Ireland," 
said  Kupert ;  "  there's  no  misery  here.  You  should 
see  the  West." 

"  You  don't  tell  me,  sir !  Dear  me.  But  they're 
a  very  pleasant  people,  as  I  find  them,  sir  —  not  so 
wild  as  one  had  been  led  to  expect,"  said  Mr.  Clod, 
who  had  been  handing  out  shillings  (to  be  compen- 
diously described  on  the  bill  as  "  disbursements  ") 
to  such  of  the  loiterers  as  had  put  a  hand  to  a  bucket 
or  tightened  a  strap ;  and  who  had  consequently  had 
Holy  Mary  and  all  the  Saints  invoked  several  times 
for  his  benefit. 

•  ••  •••••• 

But  now  they  were  out  on  the  last  stage  of  the 
road,  and  Rupert  with  memory  and  association  awa- 
kened, lost  his  sleepiness,  and  became  aware  of  a 
growing  sense  of  expectation.  After  all,  that  frail 
burden  in  the  hearse  was  his  own  kin  —  she  who  had 
nursed  and  reared  him,  and  nurtured  the  life  that 
he  had  prized  so  proudly;  the  memories  that  sprang 
out  upon  him  at  every  turn  of  the  road  were  centred 
round  her,  and  he  realized  that  only  a  few  more 
miles  of  their  journey  together  remained,  and  that 
then  he  must  bid  her  farewell  for  ever.  At  a  rocky 
corner  the  road  came  out  on  the  sea-shore  —  a  well- 
remembered  corner,  for  which  as  a  child  he  used 


332  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

eagerly  to  watch ;  and  the  crash  of  the  surf  and  the 
smell  of  the  seaweed  completed  the  emotional  effect. 
There  are  no  more  powerful  vehicles  of  association 
than  sound  and  odour;  that  which  fades  in  more 
tangible  and  substantive  things  persists  in  them, 
embalmed  as  among  spices;  and  the  sounding,  per- 
fumed shore,  thus  come  upon  suddenly  and  without 
warning,  and  found  unchanged  by  all  the  years  that 
had  so  moulded  and  changed  him,  brought  a  sudden 
smart  of  tears  to  Rupert's  eyes  and  sent  a  thrill  to 
his  soul. 

The  past,  which  he  had  thought  dead,  pressed 
living  and  persistent  upon  him  at  every  mile-stone 
—  Temple  Granagh,  where  generations  of  his  an- 
cestors slept  beneath  the  ruins  of  a  Cistercian  abbey ; 
Donagh  Farm,  the  scene  of  his  father's  operations  in 
horse-breeding;  Mill  Bay,  where  they  used  to  land 
from  the  yacht  to  fry  the  fresh-caught  mackerel  and 
picnic  on  the  sward  of  Dennis  Island ;  the  scattered 
cottages  and  farmsteads,  whose  every  inmate  had 
once  been  familiar ;  and  last,  at  the  end  of  the  long 
hill,  the  outer  lodge-gate  of  Rathshene  Demesne,  the 
mossy  wall  of  which  bordered  the  road  for  the  re- 
maining five  miles.  At  this  place  a  halt  was  called. 
Hicks  appeared  with  a  clothes'-brush,  and  removed 
the  white  dust  from  Rupert's  clothes,  afterwards 
mounting  on  the  box  beside  the  driver,  while  Clod 
and  his  brigade  drove  on  in  front. 

Just  as  they  were  starting  again  a  carriage  drove 
out  of  the  lodge-gates,  and  fell  in  behind  Rupert's; 
it  was  Lord  Rathshene,  infirm  and  old  and  almost 


WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS  333 

blind,  who  had  come  to  receive  his  dead  neighbour 
at  his  gates.  And  as  they  went  on,  now  at  a  slower 
pace,  one  conveyance  after  another,  found  waiting 
at  some  cross-road  or  drawn  up  beside  the  hedge, 
silently  fell  into  line.  Farmers'  gigs  and  carts,  half- 
a-dozen  jaunting  cars,  a  ramshackle  carriage  or  two, 
the  Doctor's  gig  —  a  score  of  vehicles  of  every  age 
and  kind,  containing  villagers,  farmers,  servants, 
neighbours,  friends,  all  dressed  in  their  Sunday  best, 
joined  the  lengthening  procession.  Rupert  noticed 
that  most  of  these  mourners  were  poor,  and  almost 
all  of  them  old;  and  to  one  face  after  another  he 
found  himself,  to  his  surprise,  able  to  put  a  long- 
forgotten  name.  At  the  door  of  the  inner  lodge- 
gate,  whither  she  had  struggled  from  her  cripple's 
bed,  stood  old  Ann,  his  former  nurse,  her  wrinkled 
face  streaming  with  tears;  and  from  this  point  on- 
wards into  the  town  the  train  was  joined  by  hum- 
bler mourners  on  foot  —  some  of  them  barefoot. 
And  so  in  silence,  with  solemn  respectful  escort, 
Jane  Savage,  who  had  left  England  followed  by  but 
one  mourner  —  and  a  half -indifferent  one  —  came 
home  followed  by  many  mourners  and  not  one  of 
them  indifferent. 

For  as  the  hearse  passed  from  the  green  tunnel  of 
trees  into  the  long,  white,  straggling  street  of  Rath- 
shene,  Rupert  became  conscious  of  one  cold  wave  of 
emotion  after  another  sweeping  through  him.  He 
sat  upright  and  bareheaded  in  his  carriage,  his 
strong  face  firmly  set,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  slow- 
moving  hearse  that  jerked  and  hesitated  over  the 


334  WHEN  THE   TIDE   TURNS 

rough  stones.  The  cottage  doors  were  all  closed  and 
the  windows  veiled,  although  curious  eyes  peered  out 
from  behind  them;  the  street  was  empty  but  for 
straying  poultry.  Even  M'Clellan's  porter-shop, 
against  which  his  aunt  had  waged  unrelenting  war, 
was  shut  and  shuttered;  closed  also,  in  defiance  of 
licensing  laws,  was  the  Rathshene  Arms.  In  the 
market  square  an  orderly  crowd  was  assembled  — 
fishermen,  Sunday  scholars,  Bands  of  Hope,  and 
other  small  corporations  important  in  Rathshene 
were  waiting  in  silence,  and  silently  took  their 
places  on  either  side  of  the  hearse.  At  the  corner 
of  the  square  Rupert  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  har- 
bour, with  the  fishing-fleet  riding  idly  at  their  moor- 
ings; and  in  that  momentary  glimpse  he  had  time 
to  observe,  almost  unconsciously,  that  the  old  coast- 
ing schooner  from  Belfast,  the  Mary  Jane,  was  in 
with  a  cargo  of  coal,  and  that  the  beacon  on  the  Gull 
Rock  had  been  repaired.  .  .  .  The  dull  tang  of  the 
church  bell  sounded  on  the  silence. 

The  grating  wheels  stopped  at  the  churchyard 
gate,  where  Clod  and  his  men  were  waiting  with 
Mr.  Kennedy,  the  rector.  Twenty  years  ago 
"  Musther  Kennedy "  had  been  looked  upon  as  a 
stranger,  a  new-comer ;  but  here  he  was,  elderly  and 
grey,  already  a  vestige  of  the  past.  Old  Gregson 
and  what  remained  of  his  human  flotilla  were  there, 
their  black  dresses  in  odd  contrast  to  their  scarlet 
faces ;  the  Hamiltons  also,  and  other  old  friends  and 
acquaintances.  Rupert  sat  in  his  place  amid  a  si- 
lence broken  only  by  the  pawing  of  horses,  unfas- 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  335 

tening  of  bolts,  coughings,  shufflings,  low-toned  or- 
ders. At  last  Clod  came  to  the  carriage-door,  and 
Rupert  stepped  to  his  place  behind  the  coffin.  A 
vertical  oblong  of  polished  oak  resting  on  the  shoul- 
ders and  between  the  stooped  heads  of  two  of  his 
fellow-travellers,  white  flowers  trailing  over  it  on  to 
one  of  the  bald  heads  —  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  that, 
and,  as  the  parson  raised  his  voice  to  utter  the  tre- 
mendous "I,"  followed  into  the  church. 

The  faint,  acrid  smell  of  damp  woodwork  carried 
him  back  to  the  past  again ;  he  was  a  little  boy,  sit- 
ting in  that  same  hard  pew  with  his  aunts,  watching 
the  nodding  of  a  creeper  outside  one  of  the  windows, 
and  counting  durance  in  church  as  an  unmixed  evil, 
and  Sunday,  when  boats  were  prohibited,  a  lost  day. 
There  was  the  cornice  of  plaster  running  round  the 
church  on  the  level  of  the  west-end  gallery;  how 
often  he  had  occupied  himself  during  sermon  time 
in  wondering  whether  it  would  be  possible,  by  any 
feat  of  strength  or  agility,  to  clamber  round  the 
building  on  that  cornice !  There  was  a  bad  gap  on 
each  side  of  the  chancel  arch,  which,  he  had  always 
decided,  offered  an  insuperable  difficulty;  now  he 
noted  that  it  would  be  quite  easy,  so  poor  and  plain 
and  small  had  the  church  become.  Sometimes  he 
was  brought  back  to  consciousness  of  the  present  by 
a  sentence  —  He  heapeth  up  riches,  and  cannot  tell 
who  shall  gather  them;  or  I  am  a-  stranger  with  thee 
and  a  sojoumer,  as  all  my  fathers  were  —  or  by  a 
movement  in  the  packed  ranks  of  the  congregation, 


336  WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS 

or  the  sight  of  tears  in  the  eyes  of  a  girl  sitting  with 
his  aunt's  Sunday  class;  but  for  the  most  part  he 
stood  as  in  a  dream,  blown  upon  by  winds  from  the 
past,  the  centre  of  converging  currents  of  memory 
and  association  that  brought  him  the  eternal  mes- 
sage of  the  beginning  and  end  of  the  generations  — 
"  Thou  turnest  man  to  destruction :  again  Thou  say- 
est,  Come  again,  ye  children  of  men." 

The  blue  of  Abraham's  cloak,  in  the  garish  win- 
dow of  Abraham  offering  up  Isaac  that  coloured  the 
sunbeams  to  the  glory  of  God  and  in  memory  of  a 
former  Savage  —  a  blue  that  had  entranced  his 
childish  taste  and  puzzled  his  mind  as  being  like 
nothing  else  in  the  world,  he  now  saw  to  be  identical 
with  the  blue  of  Mr.  Kennedy's  hood,  and  marvelled 
that  he  had  never  noticed  it  before.  An  overpower- 
ing hunger  for  the  past,  and  distaste  of  the  present 
that  he  had  thought  so  satisfying,  took  hold  of  him ; 
everything  that  this  humble  concourse  in  the  little 
Irish  seaboard  town  meant  seemed  infinitely  nobler 
and  greater  than  the  things  he  had  cared  about;  it 
had  been  there  all  these  years,  his  forefathers  had 
chosen  it,  but  he  had  neglected  and  rejected  it.  He 
felt  that  he  could  never  be  entitled  to  any  tribute 
so  simple  and  real  as  that  paid  to  his  aunt  by  this 
village  community;  and  he  felt  it  the  more  as  it 
was  paid  not  only  to  her,  but  to  the  family  that  had 
lived  there  in  honour  for  so  many  generations,  and 
was  held,  he  felt  sure,  to  have  come  to  an  end  with 
her.  Him  they  regarded  as  a  stranger  indeed,  but 


WHEN   THE   TIDE    TURNS  337 

not  as  a  sojourner,  as  his  fathers  had  been;  he  had 
chosen  to  cast  in  his  lot  with  others,  and  had  no  part 
in  that  inheritance. 

He  found  himself,  as  the  lesson  with  its  eager 
leaping  from  assertion  to  deduction  and  from  com- 
mand to  persuasion  was  read,  listening  to  that 
strange,  impassioned  argument  of  the  mortal  and 
the  immortal ;  of  fighting  with  beasts  at  Ephesus  so 
that  men  should  believe  in  the  resurrection  of  the 
body,  and  believe  in  it  because  the  grain  which  they 
sow  is  not  quickened  except  it  die;  and  he  remem- 
bered that  a  great  sage  of  his  own  day  had  given  as 
sufficient  reason  why  that  argument  should  not  be 
read  over  him :  "  The  grain  of  wheat  does  not  die ; 
or  if  it  dies,  it  does  not  live  again."  He  heard,  with 
something  of  the  artist's  wonder,  that  flowing  tap- 
estry of  words;  but  he  heard  it  as  music,  and  not 
as  logic  or  literal  truth.  Glory  of  the  sun  and  glory 
of  the  stars;  things  sown  in  weakness  and  raised 
in  power;  the  transition  from  the  first  to  the  last 
Adam,  and  exquisite  blossoming  of  the  "  quickening 
spirit " ;  the  sounding  of  the  trumpet  and  clothing 
of  the  corruptible  in  incorruption  —  the  golden 
imagery  passed  in  great  rolling  waves  over  his 
senses,  but  left  his  soul  cold,  disturbed,  uncom- 
forted. 

They  were  singing  now  —  a  favourite  hymn  of 
his  aunt's  evidently;  the  hard  treble  voices  of  the 
girls  who  led  the  singing  rang  out  in  precise  meas- 
ure, carefully  drilled  for  the  occasion  — 


338  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

"  O  happy  retribution  : 

Short  toil,  eternal  rest ; 
For  mortals  and  for  sinners 
A  mansion  with  the  blest. 

"  And  martyrdom  hath  roses 

Upon  that  heavenly  ground  : 
And  white  and  virgin  lilies 
For  virgin  souls  abound." 

Amid  the  sound  and  mobility  of  the  hymn  the 
rocklike  stillness  and  dumbness  of  the  coffin  op- 
pressed him  heavily.  He  felt  lonely,  homesick;  he 
longed  acutely  for  one  word  from  her,  one  sign  that 
she  recognized  his  presence  there  and  understood  his 
dumb,  shapeless  regrets ;  he  would  have  given  all  he 
possessed  to  sweep  away  that  load  of  flowers,  tear 
away  the  covering  of  boards,  and  look  once  more 
with  loving  eyes  on  the  dead  face.  But  the  slow, 
inexorable  ritual  of  death  and  separation  went  on; 
other  hands,  the  hymn  being  ended,  took  up  the 
coffin;  others  stood  nearer  to  her  than  he  did,  bore 
the  light  weight  of  her  mortal  body,  and  carried  it 
again,  with  him  but  as  humble  follower,  out  to  a 
corner  of  the  churchyard  where  the  nettles  had  been 
mown  down  to  expose  the  sunk  wall  where  gaped  the 
entrance  to  the  vault. 

There  was  more  shuffling  and  marshalling,  and 
crunching  of  the  gravel  walk  under  many  feet;  the 
parson  took  his  place  by  the  opening  in  the  wall; 
the  gexton  in  blue  pilot-cloth,  his  tanned  face  elo- 


WHEN  THE   TIDE   TURNS  339 

quent  more  of  the  open  sea  than  the  mouldering 
earth,  laid  his  peaked  cap  down  and,  stooping,  dis- 
appeared into  the  vault.  Clod,  still  showing  a  grief- 
stricken  countenance  amid  a  display  of  high  technical 
efficiency,  superintended  the  stripping  of  the  coffin 
of  its  adornments ;  it  was  placed  with  its  end  in  the 
narrow  entrance;  a  low  word  of  command,  more 
heavings,  thrustings,  staggerings,  agile  passage  of 
some  of  the  black  brigade  before  it  unto  the  vault  — 
it  was  out  of  sight;  Clod  and  the  remainder  of  his 
staff  in  single  file  stooping  and  disappearing  also, 
like  black  poultry  going  into  a  roost.  A  moment, 
and  they  one  by  one  appeared  again,  their  brows 
glistening  with  sweat.  Clod  signed  to  Rupert,  and 
for  the  moment  there  was  an  awkward  pause.  What 
was  this  ?  He  realized  with  dismay  that  he  was  ex- 
pected to  go  down  and  see  the  coffin  in  its  place ;  he 
would  have  refused,  but  he  felt  helpless  in  Clod's 
hands,  and,  laying  his  hat  on  a  gravestone,  he  also 
stooped  and  passed  into  the  black  sunless  oblong. 
His  senses  of  sight,  touch,  and  smell  were  agoniz- 
ingly suspicious ;  he  peered  and  shrank  and  sniffed, 
but  the  vault,  which  Jiad  been  opened  early  in  the 
morning,  only  smelt  earthy. 

He  saw  the  coffins  piled  against  the  sides,  an  ab- 
surd-looking little  one  among  them,  belonging  to  the 
sister  whom  he  had  never  seen,  and  who  had  died 
in  infancy  before  he  was  born.  All  .the  polish  had 
gone  from  them,  but  otherwise  time  seemed  to  have 
dealt  easily  with  them  in  that  still  place,  and  they 
preserved  their  dreadful  secrets.  The  last  vacant 


340  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

place  was  filled  by  his  aunt's;  there  would  he  room 
for  no  more ;  the  tale  of  generations  there  was  com- 
plete, and  the  dead,  so  scattered  and  various  in  their 
lives,  were  gathered  together  within  the  walls  of  this 
silent  house.  He  glanced  once  more  at  his  aunt's 
coffin,  that  new  and  shining  example  of  the  cabinet- 
maker's art,  and  at  the  words  "  Jane  Savage " 
graven  in  the  hard  brass  —  the  last  mute  cry  of  the 
individual  to  preserve  its  identity  amid  the  slow 
return  to  universal,  indestructible  matter.  At  the 
same  moment  he  became  conscious  of  an  alarm  in 
his  senses  —  a  sudden  perception,  far  finer  than  an 
odour,  of  the  fact  of  corruption ;  every  fibre  of  his 
being  contracted  in  horror,  and  as  he  hurried  out  of 
the  vault  a  qualm  of  nausea  took  him,  so  that  for  a 
moment  he  felt  faint  and  giddy. 

But  the  sweet  sunlit  air  and  the  sight  of  the  wait- 
ing crowd  nerved  him ;  he  took  his  place  with  them, 
and  the  quavering,  modulated  tones  of  the  parson 
began  again.  Rupert  was  acutely  conscious;  he 
heard  every  word,  and  yet  noticed  and  afterwards 
remembered  all  sorts  of  trifles  —  a  robin  perching 
on  a  branch  over  Lord  Rathshene's  head,  uttering 
two  chirps,  and  hastily  flying  away;  the  masterly 
tactics  of  some  little  bare-foot  children  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  crowd  who  kept  insinuating  themselves 
into  a  more  eligible  position  in  spite  of  the  frowns 
and  fist-shakings  of  the  schoolmaster;  and,  as  Mr. 
Kennedy  was  saying :  "  Thou  knowest,  Lord,  the 
secrets  of  our  hearts ;  shut  not  Thy  merciful  ears  to 
our  prayer,"  the  stealthy  passing  of  a  handful  of 


WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS  341 

earth  from  the  sexton  to  Mr.  Clod.  Clod  caught  Ru- 
pert's eje  for  a  second,  but  looked  hastily  away  again, 
scratching  his  chin  with  the  forefinger  of  his  right 
hand,  as  though  to  show  that  there  was  nothing  in 
it;  but  presently,  at  the  words  of  committal,  he 
stepped  forward  with  the  air  of  a  mournful  con- 
juror, and  shot  the  contents  of  his  hand,  with  three 
nicely  calculated  motions,  into  the  vault,  afterwards 
dusting  his  hands  and  retiring  to  the  background  as 
one  who  had  played  his  part,  not  to  the  .gallery,  but 
in  accordance  with  his  own  far  higher  standards. 

"  Lord,  have  mercy  upon  us,"  said  Mr.  Kennedy. 

"  Christ,  have  mercy  upon  us,"  said  Warnock  the 
sexton  and  Miss  Quayle,  the  leader  of  the  choir, 
accompanied  by  a  mutter  from  the  crowd,  taken 
thus  by  surprise  and  hopeless  of  being  in  time ;  and 
confirmed  in  loud  tones  by  Mr.  Gregson. 

"  Lord,  have  mercy  upon  us,"  corrected  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy, as  one  entitled  to  the  last  word ;  and  the  mon- 
otone flowed  on  again,  while  the  leaves  shimmered 
in  the  breeze,  and  the  girls  of  Miss  Savage's  Sunday 
class  furtively  blew  their  noses.  The  undertaker's 
men  had  melted  away  into  the  background;  round 
him  now  Rupert  could  see  only  Rathshene  faces,  old 
and  lined,  most  of  them,  and  eloquent  of  the  solem- 
nity of  the  moment.  .  .  . 

"  Who  also  hath  taught  us  (by  His  holy  apostle 
Saint  Paul)  not  to  be  sorry,  as  men  without  hope, 
for  them  that  sleep  in  Him.  .  .  ." 

A  beggar  in  filthy  rags  sneezed  loudly  twice,  and, 
as  eyes  were  turned  reproachfully  upon  him  and  his 


342  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

tatters,  looked  ready  to  sink  into  the  earth  for 
shame,  and  gave  a  sickly  smile  of  embarrassment. 
Rupert  felt  the  tension  suddenly  relieved;  he  could 
have  smiled  too,  and  felt  grateful  to  the  beggar; 
there  was  a  stir  in  the  crowd ;  the  spell  was  broken ; 
they  began  to  think  of  dinner;  and  while  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy was  saying  "  Come,  ye  blessed  children  of  my 
Father,  receive  the  kingdom  prepared  for  you  from 
the  beginning  of  the  world,"  women  left  at  home 
in  the  cottages  were  lifting  the  lids  of  potato  sauce- 
pans and  saying:  "Sure,  they'll  not  be  long  now." 

And  so  presently,  when  all  was  over  and  the  last 
Amen  said  and  the  Book  closed,  they  did  go  back  to 
dinner  and  to  life,  some  of  the  older  ones  lingering 
to  shake  hands  with  Rupert,  and  speak  a  few  homely 
words  of  sympathy  and  praise  of  the  dead. 

"  A  wonderful  woman,  your  aunt,"  said  old  Lord 
Rathshene ;  "  we  shall  miss  her  here.  Won't  you 
come  back  to  lunch  ?  No  ?  Going  back  to-morrow  ? 
Well,  you're  a  busy  man,  and  the  world  moves  fast 
now.  When  you  come  back  you  must  come  and 
dine  and  have  a  talk."  And  he  hobbled  off  to  his 
carriage. 

"  Ah,  Masther  Rupert,  an*  ye  don't  know  me," 
said  one  tearful  old  woman  at  the  gate ;  "  but  many's 
the  time  I've  nursed  yer  honour,  and  Miss  Jane 
before  ye,  an*  the  dear  knows  when  there'll  be  the 
like  of  her  again.  May  God  bless  yer  honour,  and 
all  yer  honour's  —  The  quavering  old  voice  died 
off  into  tearful  silence  as  Rupert  pressed  her  hand 
and  spoke  some  kind  words. 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  343 

He  walked  back  through  the  village  with  Mr. 
Kennedy,  speaking  to  this  one  and  that,  to  the  silent 
house  overlooking  the  rocky  shore,  where  only  the 
servants,  tearful  and  expectant,  awaited  him  with 
luncheon  in  the  familiar  dining-room. 

How  strange  it  all  was ;  the  rooms  seemed  a  little 
smaller  and  shabbier  than  of  yore,  but  how  dear  and 
familiar,  how  melancholy !  As  he  walked  out  of  one 
silent  room  into  another  he  held  his  breath  and  lis- 
tened, as  though  he  expected  to  hear  the  dead  voices 
still  speaking  there,  or  meet  his  own  dead  self  pass- 
ing from  doorway  to  doorway.  It  was  harder  to 
bear  even  than  the  scene  in  the  churchyard.  He 
felt  that  the  real  parting  and  burial  were  here;  that 
these  were  the  obsequies  of  all  that  had  made  life 
dear  to  him;  for  where  memories  and  associations 
spring  to  life  we  bury  our  hearts  anew,  and  wher- 
ever Rupert  buried  his  heart,  he  buried  Celia  with 
it. 

The  lawyer  lunched  with  him,  and  Rupert  talked 
business  while  they  lunched,  glad  to  escape  into 
definite  practical  things  out  of  the  terrifying  maze 
of  memories.  The  afternoon  was  spent  in  going 
over  books  and  documents.  There  was  a  question, 
now,  when  his  income  seemed  likely  to  be  reduced 
for  a  time,  whether  he  would  be  able  to  keep  on  the 
little  property.  But  it  appeared  that  his  aunt's 
death  brought  an  addition  to  his  income  that  would 
be  enough  to  keep  Rathshene  going  in  its  old  quiet 
way;  and  although  he  could  no  more  have  lived 


344  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

there  at  present  than  he  could  have  lived  in  St. 
James's  Place,  he  felt  that  some  day  he  might  be 
glad  to  come  back,  and  to  feel  that  there  was  a  home 
there  even  though  it  were  so  lonely  and  silent. 

At  five  o'clock  Clod  came  for  him,  and  together 
they  went  back  to  the  churchyard.  The  vault  was 
already  bricked  up,  and  looked  as  though  it  had 
never  been  disturbed;  and  Clod,  about  to  depart 
again  into  a  world  where  things  were  done  a  little 
more  regularly,  looked  upon  his  labours  and  saw  that 
they  were  good. 

"  Everything  passed  off  very  nicely,  I  think,  sir," 
he  said.  "  Quite  a  large  gathering  at  the  grave.  I 
think  the  service  was  very  nice  —  everything  very 
nice,  and  the  people  seemed  to  be  genuinely  af- 
fected." Clod  had  been  distributing  money  to  vari- 
ous helpers  and  to  beggars ;  making  only  one  mistake, 
when  he  met  in  the  High  Street  General  the  Hon. 
Peter  Slade,  Lord  Eathshene's  brother  (a  veteran 
of  the  Crimea,  who  had  a  wooden  leg  and  dressed 
very  oddly),  and  gave  him  a  shilling,  much  to  his 
surprise. 

Rupert  spent  the  evening  alone.  He  had  told  the 
Hamiltons  and  some  others  who  had  been  anxious 
to  show  him  kindness  that  he  wished  to  be  alone,  as 
he  was  going  away  the  next  day  and  had  much  to  do. 
He  rowed  himself  out  a  little  way  in  one  of  the 
boats,  which  Sam,  grown  a  little  greyer  and  stouter, 
had  kept  painted  and  ready  year  after  year ;  and  as 
he  smelt  the  brown,  wet  seaweed,  and  felt  the  pull 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  345 

of  the  tide,  and  listened  to  it  echoing  from  the 
rocky  shore  and  filling  the  quiet  evening  air  with 
voices,  it  seemed  to  him  as  though  he  had  never 
been  away,  and  that  he  should  hear  other  familiar 
voices  calling  to  him  as  he  crossed  the  lawn  and 
shrubbery.  But  he  found  only  silence,  aching  and 
intolerable,  and  he  went  to  bed  early. 

The  next  morning  was  occupied  with  the  agent 
in  a  tour  of  the  place,  in  which  the  outward  and 
simple  details  of  life  were  so  insistent  that  it  was 
impossible  to  think  about  anything  but  them;  and 
Kupert  almost  forgot  that  he  had  ever  been  an  ar- 
tist, and  talked  crops  and  soils  and  drainage  with 
the  old  zest. 

But  it  was  all  over  by  lunch-time.  He  was  going 
away  in  the  evening.  The  necessity  for  constant 
movement  was  upon  him;  having  settled  his  busi- 
ness, he  felt  it  was  impossible  to  stay  in  Rathshene 
another  hour.  He  hardly  knew  whither  he  intended 
to  go  —  Paris  perhaps,  and  then  to  Spain.  He  felt 
a  great  longing  to  go  back  to  Spain  and  see  if  that 
road  on  which  his  youthful  feet  had  stumbled  had 
been  really  the  right  road  after  all. 

The  afternoon  was  warm  and  still ;  the  house  and 
grounds  were  silent  but  for  the  sound  of  the  tide 
running  past  the  rocks.  Rupert  sat  at  the  library 
table  where  he  had  been  writing  a  letter,  his  chin 
propped  on  his  elbows,  his  eyes  looking  straight  out 
in  front  of  him.  The  long  windows  giving  on  to  the 
lawn  on  the  westward  side  of  the  house  were  wide 


346  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

open,  and  his  view  was  of  a  strip  of  the  blue,  sliding 
waters  of  the  lough,  the  green  hills  of  the  distant 
shore,  and  a  strip  of  sky  over  all. 

But  he  was  not  looking  at  the  hills  or  the  sea  or 
the  sky;  his  eyes  were  focussed  hundreds  of  miles 
away.  He  tried  to  face  squarely  the  thoughts  that 
he  had  been  shirking  and  to  think  out  his  position. 
He  had  been  brought  by  hard  work,  good  fortune, 
and  a  wave  of  something  like  a  fashion  in  the  par- 
ticular work  that  he  did,  to  a  great  height  of  fame 
and  popularity.  He  had  so  wrought  upon  the  spirit 
of  his  time  that  he  had  made  knowledge  of  his  work 
and  interest  in  it  one  of  the  hall-marks  of  artistic 
intelligence  and  cultivation.  He  had  gathered  into 
himself  and  expressed  in  his  work  so  much  of  his 
own  day  and  hour,  that  to  know  it  thoroughly  was 
to  know  what  was  newest  and  most  vital  in  the 
confused  movements  of  the  modern  spirit  in  art 

Now,  owing  to  the  moral  obliquity  of  Cyril  Mid- 
wood  —  a  thing  of  which  Rupert  had  been  aware, 
but  which  he  had  chosen  to  ignore  —  he  had  been 
involved  in  the  ruin  of  the  other  man;  and  Mid- 
wood,  in  falling  himself,  had  laid  hold  of  the  pillars 
of  their  common  house  and  brought  the  whole  thing 
down  with  a  crash.  Rupert's  own  work  was  good 
and  sound  —  he  knew  it ;  but  he  knew  also  that  he 
had  not  been  content  to  build  his  reputation  on  the 
strength  of  his  work  alone,  but  on  personality,  on 
fashion,  on  the  exaggerated  importance  attributed 
even  to  the  trifling  doings  of  a  clique.  Otherwise 
this  catastrophe  would  not  have  had  the  power  to 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  347 

involve  him  in  it.  If  he  had  stood  on  his  work 
alone  he  would  have  stood  clear  of  the  falling  edi- 
fice; but  he  was  in  it  and  part  of  it;  and  though 
he  was  innocent  of  the  miserable  obscure  perversions 
that  had  compassed  the  ruin  of  Midwood,  he  was 
not  so  certain  that  he  was  innocent  of  a  share  in 
producing  an  artistic  environment  in  which  they 
could  be  cultivated.  It  was  a  hateful  thought,  but 
he  faced  it  squarely. 

So  much  for  his  work.  There  was  nothing  really 
to  dismay  him  there,  although  he  had  many  things 
to  get  rid  of  and  forget.  But  when  he  considered 
himself  and  his  own  individual  life,  the  chill  crept 
over  his  heart  again  and  the  furrows  came  in  his 
brow.  He  was  sorriest  for  his  friends,  and  a  little 
contemptuous  of  his  timid  acquaintances;  one  of 
the  only  brave  things  that  had  cheered  him  had  been 
a  warm-hearted  but  sadly-worded  invitation  from 
Lady  Fastnet  to  come  and  stay  with  her  at  Castle 
Fastnet,  if  he  wanted  a  friendly  retreat. 

He  looked  out  across  the  rippled  talking  waters 
to  the  green  fields  beyond,  and  followed  with  his 
eye  the  wooded  coast-line  northwards  to  where  it 
became  merged  in  the  deep  blue  background  of  the 
hills;  and  his  thoughts  were  of  his  boyhood  and 
youth,  and  of  the  life  that  had  flowed  like  a  river 
so  quietly  here  until  it  had  merged  into  the  open 
sea  of  the  world  of  labour  and  love. 

But  when  they  came  to  Celia  his  thoughts  stopped 
like  shying  horses.  He  could  not  think.  He  led 
his  mind  up  gently,  but  his  thoughts  were  in  a 


348  WHEN   THE  TIDE   TURNS 

region  of  terror  and  saw  nothing  as  it  really  was. 
It  was  a  kind  of  panic  fear  that  possessed  him. 
Fear  of  what,  he  hardly  knew;  fear  of  life  without 
her.  .  .  .  He  tried  to  think  again,  to  remember.  He 
turned  the  ring  that  she  had  given  him  slowly  on 
his  finger  and  uncovered  the  little  word  "  forse " 
that  had  meant  so  much.  "  Perhaps  "  —  perhaps 
what?  He  remembered  the  last  time  that  he  had 
seen  her,  he  remembered  the  look  in  her  eyes,  of 
perfect  truth,  of  unending  love  that  could  be  trusted 
through  everything  and  for  ever;  it  had  been  his 
greatest  prize.  What  had  happened?  His  hour  of 
need  had  come,  he  had  called  to  her  and  she  had  not 
answered;  worse  than  that  she  had  employed  her 
husband  to  answer  for  her.  ...  It  meant  nothing; 
it  was  not  true,  it  was  impossible  —  and  yet  the  facts 
were  there  between  them;  she  was  far  away,  and 
he  was  here  alone. 

It  was  one  of  those  rare  moments  in  which  the 
imagination  is  suddenly  clarified  and  realizes  a  posi- 
tion completely  and  clearly.  Rupert  had  a  sense  of 
complete  and  utter  loneliness  and  emptiness;  and 
he  put  his  head  down  on  his  arms  —  not  to  sob,  for 
he  could  not  cry  at  his  own  miseries,  but  for  the  mere 
sensation  of  hiding  his  head  somewhere,  and  cover- 
ing his  sight  from  the  light  of  a  day  that  had  become 
intolerable. 

•  •••  •  •  »  *• 

There  came  a  faint  rustle  at  the  open  window  — 
the  sea  breeze  often  brushed  through  the  ivy  with  a 
sound  like  the  stir  of  silken  garments.  He  did  not 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  349 

move.  The  sound  came  again,  and  with  it  another 
sound,  like  the  catching  of  a  breath.  Rupert  raised 
his  head  heavily  and  slowly,  and  then  something 
between  a  gasp  and  a  sob  rose  in  his  throat. 

For,  standing  framed  in  the  window,  stood  Celia, 
her  hands  clasped  before  her,  her  dark  dress  outlined 
against  the  background  of  moving  water,  her  face, 
shaded  and  veiled  beneath  the  drooping  brim  of  her 
hat,  grave  and  weary  —  but  oh,  how  ineffably  sweet ! 
Rupert  gazed  for  a  second,  his  eyes  widely  opened, 
his  lips  parted.  He  held  his  breath,  as  though  she 
were  a  vision  that  would  vanish  at  his  sound  or 
movement. 

The  long  eyelashes  swept  slowly  upwards,  the  sweet 
mouth  parted ;  amid  the  weariness,  the  solemnity  of 
her  expression,  a  little  smile  lurked  about  the  lips. 

"  Good  afternoon,  Rupert.  I'm  afraid  I  have 
brought  a  lot  of  luggage.  I  —  I've  come  —  to  stay." 
The  dear  voice  broke,  the  eyes  filled  with  tears,  the 
hands  were  unclasped  and  held  out ;  but  before  her 
head  drooped  she  was  caught  in  his  arms,  clasped  and 
held  motionless  there,  like  molten  gold  that,  after 
the  bruisings  and  washings,  after  the  firing  and  melt- 
ing and  purifying  in  the  refiner's  furnace,  runs  into 
the  mould  to  fill  it  and  take  its  shape  for  ever. 

"  Celia,  my  darling,  my  love,  my  own !  "  He 
covered  her  eyes  and  her  mouth  and  her  hair  with 
blind  kisses,  and  listened  for  the  whisper  that  came 
like  a  sigh  of  rest  and  contentment  — "  Rupert, 
darling  Rupert !  " 

"  My  beloved,  my  own  now,  my  very  own  now !  " 


350  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

"  Your  very  own  always !".... 

Who  can  speak  or  write  of  those  rocket-flights  of 
the  soul  when  at  the  touch  of  love  it  soars  beyond 
time  and  space,  and  breaks  into  its  starry  blossom 
of  fire?  The  stick  falls  back  to  earth,  the  material 
elements  of  fire  are  released  and  go  back  to  their 
appointed  place  in  the  universe,  but  the  fire  and  the 
colour  and  the  glory  do  not  return;  they  die  there 
where  they  were  born,  in  empyrean  heights  beyond 
our  sight  and  ken;  and,  living  and  dying,  they  re- 
veal all  heaven  and  earth  for  one  moment  as  glory 
and  colour  and  fire.  In  the  meeting  of  man  and 
woman,  soul  with  soul  and  body  with  body,  there 
is  all  poetry  and  art,  all  religion,  all  empire  and 
civilization,  all  earth  and  heaven,  all  the  universe, 
all  time  and  death  and  eternity. 

"  How  could  you  have  doubted  that  I  would  come 
when  you  needed  me?  How  could  you  think  that 
when  everything  else  failed  you  I  could  fail  ?  Oh, 
Rupert,  I  shall  have  to  begin  and  teach  you  all  over 
again !  " 

"  Teach  me  that  you  are  here,  that  I  am  with  you, 
that  you  are  mine!  Dear,  let  me  learn  that  first." 
They  were  sitting  quietly  now,  hand  in  hand  in  the 
library,  and  Celia  was  telling  him  of  her  life  since 
that  dreadful  day  —  her  growing  agony  and  deter- 
mination, her  utter  loneliness,  her  final  resolution 
when  she  heard  of  his  aunt's  death  from  Lady 
Waynefleete,  and  understood  from  her  the  extent  of 
the  injury  like  to  be  done  to  Rupert.  And  then 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  351 

she  had  told  Lady  Waynefleete  everything,  more 
than  she  even  told  Rupert,  or  that  he  ever  would 
seek  to  know.  And  Lady  Waynefleete  had  picked 
up  a  railway  guide,  and  given  it  to  her,  and  said, 
"  I  will  stand  by  you  both,  and,  if  I  am  alive,  wel- 
come you  back  to  England."  And  she  had  taken 
Celia  in  her  arms,  and  for  the  first  time  in  twenty 
years,  cried  in  the  presence  of  another  woman. 

Celia  said  very  little  about  Graeme.  Rupert  knew 
what  the  infliction  upon  him  of  the  inevitable  con- 
ventional stain  would  mean  to  her,  but  she  had  done 
it  calmly  and  deliberately,  and  kept  hidden  the  con- 
flicts of  her  soul.  All  she  said  was  — 

"  I  told  him  myself  —  I  didn't  write  it.  He  broke 
a  compact  we  made  years  ago,  or  tried  to  break  it. 
I  think  he  hates  me  —  I  hope  so,  for  his  sake.  It 
will  carry  him  through  the  worst,  and  afterwards  he 
will  really  be  happier  without  me.  It  was  never 
anything  but  a  failure,  although  I  think  we  both 
tried  to  make  the  best  of  it.  And  oh,  Rupert,  it  is 
behind  me  now !  Let  us  never  look  back.  We  would 
have  to  look  back  separately,  but  we  can  look  for- 
ward together !  " 

The  shadows  began  to  lengthen  on  the  blue  hills, 
reminding  Rupert  of  the  arrangements  he  had  made 
to  go  away  that  night.  "  I  must  do  something,"  he 
said ;  "  I  must  make  some  arrangements  for  you, 
Celia." 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his.  "  We  will  both  go,"  she 
cried ;  "  this  is  your  home ;  it  is  sacred  to  things 
quite  different  from  the  sacredness  of  our  love.  We 


352  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

mustn't  mix  them,  or  offend  the  spirits  of  those  dear 
dead  people." 

"  Darling,  our  happiness  can  offend  no  one ;  we 
shall  fill  the  world  with  it.  It  has  changed  every- 
thing for  me.  I  thought  I  minded  the  row  about 
me,  but  I  see  that  I  don't.  I  can  smile  at  it,  and  so 
can  you.  And  I  feel  that  you  and  I  together  can 
be  in  tune  even  with  all  the  memories  that  are  here." 

"  No,  dearest,  we  will  go  —  and  to-night.  All 
my  luggage  is  there  at  the  lodge  —  I  didn't  even 
bring  it  in !  Listen  to  me. 

"  I  want  us  to  come  to  this  place  differently,  in  a 
different  mood,  in  a  different  hour,  not  like  this, 
when  you  and  I  are  all  torn  and  bruised,  and  the 
shadow  of  death  is  over  us.  We  could  not  be  healed 
here  —  we  must  go  away  to  another  world,  another 
life  for  that.  I  want  to  learn  every  bit  of  it,  every 
rock  and  stone  that  is  dear  to  you.  But  there  must 
be  a  break  —  for  you  far  more  than  for  me.  Some 
day  this  will  be  our  home  —  but  only  when  you  can 
bring  me  to  it  in  a  way  that  wouldn't  hurt  them  — 
Rupert,  dearest,  when  I  am  your  wife."  .  .  . 

In  his  heart  he  felt  as  she  did;  and  so  the  old 
temple  of  family  life  suffered  no  indignity  from 
them  or  their  love,  but  went  back  to  its  green,  dream- 
ing sleep,  lulled  by  the  drowsy  tides,  until  one  more 
cycle  of  its  life  should  begin,  until  it  should  wake 
again  to  the  sound  of  little  voices  and  pattering  foot- 
steps, until  once  more  the  voice  of  the  generations 
should  speak  in  it  —  "  come  again,  ye  children  of 
men." 


XV 

LADY  FASTNET  was  walking  before  breakfast  in 
the  garden  of  her  gloomy  house  in  the  west  of  Ire- 
land. It  had  rained  all  night,  and  would  begin  to 
rain  again  presently;  the  air,  although  it  was  sum- 
mer, was  lifeless  and  heavy  with  moist  heat.  The 
long  stucco  fagade  of  the  house  had  weathered  and 
peeled  off  in  places  and  had  been  indifferently  re- 
paired; it  was  in  the  worst  and  most  pretentious 
style  of  sham  architecture  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, and  under  the  gloomy  grey  sky,  and  in  the 
light  which  the  deep  green  foliage  of  the  rank  trees 
absorbed,  it  looked  like  a  prison.  The  trees  had 
grown  too  thickly  about  it,  and  had  hidden  the  stony 
fields  and  bog  that  would  otherwise  have  filled  the 
distance;  there  was  hardly  any  colour  of  flowers  or 
shrubs  in  the  garden;  all  vegetation  seemed  to  have 
conspired  to  express  itself  in  the  deep  and  sombre 
tone  of  the  rankly  growing  evergreens. 

The  cypress  walk,  where  her  ladyship  was  taking 
her  morning  stroll,  was  a  mere  tunnel  of  heavy,  sad- 
looking  trees;  the  view  of  the  house  was  obscured 
from  it,  which  is  perhaps  the  reason  why  Geraldine 
chose  to  walk  there.  It  was  very  silent,  and  her  light 

353 


354  WHEN  THE  TIDE   TURNS 

footfall  was  almost  muffled  by  the  moss  that  grew 
in  the  gravel.  Her  slight  and  still  girlish  figure  in 
its  blue  linen  dress  seemed  a  very  alien  and  incon- 
gruous inhabitant  of  this  melancholy  scene.  She 
had  a  letter  in  her  hand,  which  she  was  reading  as 
she  walked  slowly  up  and  down. 

"  FUENTEKKABIA,  15th  May. 

"  MY  DEAR  LADY  FASTNET,  —  You  would  under- 
stand from  my  telegram  that  I  was  leaving  England, 
and  so  have  had  one  explanation  why  I  could  not 
accept  your  kind,  beautiful  invitation.  There  is  an- 
other reason  which  I  think  I  ought  to  give  to  you, 
although  perhaps  you  will  find  it  difficult  to  bring 
yourself  to  sympathize  with  me  in  it. 

"  In  the  darkest  moment  of  my  life  the  woman 
whom  I  love,  and  who  loves  me,  came  and  joined 
her  life  with  mine,  and  has  given  up  everything  that 
a  woman  can  give  up  in  order  that  our  lives  may 
be  shared.  This  would  of  itself  mean  that  we  should 
have  to  leave  England ;  but  in  any  case,  after  all  that 
has  happened,  it  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  work 
there  for  a  time.  When  the  pillars  of  our  temple 
were  pulled  down  there,  good  and  bad  were  crushed 
and  buried  together.  Some  day  when  the  ruins  are 
cleared  I  know  that  the  good  will  be  found  to  have 
endured  and  the  bad  to  have  perished ;  in  the  mean- 
time there  is  nothing  but  dust  and  desolation  and 
destruction,  and  one  can  only  leave  it  to  time  and 
silence. 

"  You  must  not  be  anxious  or  unhappy  about  me. 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  355 

I  am  not  ruined,  or  hurt,  or  even  damaged  by  all 
this ;  all  that  I  have  really  made  for  myself  in  repu- 
tation remains ;  it  is  only  what  I  had  borrowed  from 
others  that  has  gone.  But  I  cannot  bear  to  think 
how  nearly  my  work,  my  fame,  if  you  like,  came  to 
be  utterly  crushed  by  the  fall  of  this  one  man;  I 
want  to  rest  them  on  a  better  and  broader  basis,  on 
foundations  that  moral  earthquakes  and  accidents  of 
time  and  place  cannot  shake.  So  it  is  to  Spain, 
where  the  glory  of  art  first  came  to  me,  that  we  are 
going  back  together  —  I  and  my  chosen  friend.  I 
shall  rediscover  that  glory  with  her,  and  renew  it 
and  deepen  it,  if  I  can,  into  a  more  durable  glory. 

"  Do  you  remember  how  once,  long  ago,  I  told 
you  that  everything  I  was,  or  would  be,  I  owed  to 
you?  Just  now,  when  what  looks  like  disaster  has 
come  upon  me,  and  I  am  just  as  full  of  happiness 
as  it  is  possible  for  any  one  to  be,  I  like  to  acknowl- 
edge again  how  much  truth  there  was  in  that  boyish 
speech.  The  start  in  life  means  so  much  —  the  first 
impulse  and  its  direction;  and  it  matters  so  much 
who  gives  it  to  us !  You  gave  me  mine,  dear  Greral- 
dine,  you  sent  me  to  work  instead  of  to  love,  and 
in  doing  that  you  taught  me  how  to  love. 

"  All  this  is  very  egotistical  and  rather  incoherent. 
I  wish  you  could  be  as  happy  as  I  am  and  then  you 
would  understand  why.  But  I  know  that  in  your 
own  way  you  will  always  be  happy,  because  you  are 
in  possession  of  your  own  soul;  you  do  the  things 
you  believe  to  be  worth  doing,  and  leave  undone  the 
things  you  do  not  really  believe  in.  If  only  we  all 


356  WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS 

did  that !  —  I  think  I  can  see  you,  sitting  somewhere 
in  the  sunshine  in  your  garden,  with  the  soft,  green 
world  of  Ireland  rolling  away  in  far  distances  to 
the  bright  sky  —  your  own  room,  your  own  things 
about  you,  and  the  peace  and  quietness  that  your 
soul  loves.  There  now,  you  are  laughing  at  me  — 
even  the  mouth  is  smiling!  And  Celia  sends  you 
her  love,  although  you  don't  know  her.  We  both  say 
thank  you  a  thousand  times,  and  ask  for  your  bless- 
ing on  our  sinful  happiness.  Ever, 

"  RUPERT." 

She  turned  at  the  far  end  of  the  cypress  walk  and 
looked  down  its  dark  green  vista.  The  sky  was  a 
muffled  grey  pall,  so  charged  with  moisture  that  the 
very  air  seemed  like  water  held  in  suspension. 
Heavy  drops  hung  from  every  point  of  every  leaf 
and  flower  and  stem,  but  there  was  no  light  for  them 
to  reflect,  and  they  looked  like  drops  of  lead.  In 
Geraldine's  eyes,  that  were  always  the  colour  of  the 
sky,  the  leaden  tears  gathered  and  would  not  fall. 

A  murmur  arose  in  the  depths  of  the  gloomy  house 
and  increased  gradually  with  the  barbarous  cres- 
cendo of  a  beaten  gong,  until  the  strident  boom 
reached  its  climax  and  hung  there,  echoing  through 
the  gardens,  disturbing  the  rooks  in  the  dripping 
treetops,  and  creeping  out  over  field  and  coppice  as 
though  it  were  summoning  a  clan  to  arms.  But  no 
one  answered;  the  sound  diminished  and  died  out 
on  the  heavy  air ;  the  rooks  settled  down  again,  and 


WHEN   THE   TIDE   TURNS  357 

but  for  the  drip  from  the  trees  there  was  silence 
unbroken. 

Geraldine,  with  her  letter  in  her  hand,  passed 
slowly  along  the  cypress  walk,  hesitated  for  a  mo- 
ment before  the  flight  of  stone  steps,  and  passed  on 
into  the  dark  house. 


THE    END. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  1 1 8  023     1 


